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Mademoiselle de Berny 





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Mademoiselle de Berny 

A Story of Valley Forge 


By 


Pauline Bradford ^acki^ 


Illustrated by 

Frank T. Merrill 


‘‘In their ragged regimentals 
Stood the old Continentals, 
Yielding not * * 



Lamson, WolfFe and Company 
Boston, New York and London 



TWO copies KECEIVEO 



Copyright, 1897, 

By Lamson, Wolffe and Company. 


All rights reserved. 


The Norwood Press 

y. S. Cushing & Co. — Berwick fef Smith 
Norwood^ Mass.y U.S.A. 


/ 


f^X 

f7^ 


TO 


Mr MOTHER 


It having pleased the Almighty Ruler of the Uni- 
verse to defend the cause of the United American 
States, and finally, to raise us up a powerful friend 
among the princes of the earth, to establish our liberty 
and independence upon a lasting foundation, it becomes 
us to set apart a day for gratefully acknowledging the 
Divine goodness and celebrating the important event. 
. . . Upon a signal given, the whole army will huzza. 
Long live the King of France ! The artillery then 
begins again and fires thirteen rounds ; this will be suc- 
ceeded by a second general discharge of the musketry 
in a running fire, and huzza. Long live the friendly 
European Powers ! The last discharge of thirteen 
pieces of artillery will be given, followed by a general 
running fire, and huzza. The American States 


“George Washington.** 


List of Illustrations 


Opposite Page 

Heyward drew himself up agaiast the wainscot- 
ing’’ . . . . . Frontispiece 

/ The meeting of Mademoiselle de Berny and the Mar- 
quis de La Fayette . . . . .62 

Armand at Heyward’s Valley Forge Quarters . . 98 

V Heyward and the Quaker Spy . , . .161 

^ Mademoiselle de Berny pleads with General Wash- 
ington ....... 2©7 


V vn 


For courtesy extended to them in editing the Quaker 
dialect which has been employed in the pages of ‘‘ Made- 
moiselle de Berny,^’ the thanks of both author and publishers 
are due to Dr. B. F. Trueblood, Secretary of the American 
Peace Society. 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


Chapter I 

O N an afternoon in early May, in the year 
1778, four people rode into the court- 
yard of the Green Tree coffee-house in new 
Philadelphia, and, dismounting, entered the din- 
ing-room. It was a long room poorly lighted 
by diamond-paned Dutch casements of greenish 
glass set high in the wall and swung half-open. 
In the furthest corner from the door lounged 
a man, evidently a hanger-on of the place. 
His huge bulk clad in drab Quaker costume 
was so vaguely defined as to suggest merely a 
lightening of the shadow at that particular spot. 
His head was dropped on his breast ; his legs 
stretched out stiffly suggested imminent danger 
of his slipping from the bench to the floor. A 
red glow showed fitfully beneath the ashes of 
his carelessly held pipe. 

At the opposite end of the room was the 
fireplace of such great width one might look 
up the broad-mouthed chimney to the sky. 
The backlog was a hewn sione ; the blue til- 
ing had been brought from Liverpool. Above 


2 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


the chimney-hood was a carelessly hung paint- 
ing of George III. of England, in a tarnished 
oval frame. 

Of the newcomers, one, a British officer, 
rose from the chair in which he had seated 
himself and, crossing the room, straightened 
the picture. 

“ Such reverence do these knaves pay tkeir 
king,” he said, “’tis small wonder they do not 
turn the portrait clean around and have His 
Gracious Majesty a-dancing on his head 

The one woman of the party, a young girl, 
glanced up from the flowers she was arrang- 

‘‘Your frown is stupendous. Uncle Henry,” 
she said. “ Methinks my words rang true for 
all your stormy denial.”. 

Augmented by the mischievous gleaming of 
her eyes, the sweetness of her voice seemed 
mocking. 

“ Now, by your honest soul, dear uncle, 
confess the truth. You are troubled that these 
Provincials prove so well their blood-relation 
to His Majesty's troops ? But yesterday, I 
heard that when the back is turned the towns- 
folk whisper 'tis Philadelphia has captured the 
British, and not the British Philadelphia.” 

The little man, still standing near the por- 
trait, made an irritated gesture. 

“ Do ye wonder, Diane ? ” he asked ; “ lo, 
have I not known how the dolts smile and 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


3 


murmur ? And this Mischianza,” he fumed. 
“ 'Tis well enough for women-folk ! They 
must have their fol-de-rols. But men, men 
I say, turned milliners and dancing-masters, 
wearing uniforms as puppet-soldiers. Was't 
in this fashion, I ask ye. His Majesty’s sol- 
diers were taught to conduct a campaign — to 
lie idle the entire winter, gambling and carous- 
ing, dancing attendance on these American 
belles, who, I warrant ye, laugh in their sleeves 
at the young popinjays ! ” 

A young Philadelphian, named Heyward, 
seated beside Mademoiselle de Berny on the 
bench, which, starting from the fireplace, ran 
around the room, had been leaning forward, 
his cheek resting on his hand, as he idly trailed 
the lash of his riding-whip along the floor. 
He drew himself up now, leaning against the 
wainscoting, which formed the back of the 
seat, shelving out at the top into a ledge for 
mugs and pipes. 

“ Rumor has it that the winter hardships 
have but served to toughen the rebels at Valley 
Forge,” he said, still toying with the whip. 
“ A hungry dog holds fastest to a bone.” 

“ I warrant ye,” retorted General Stirling, 
and a night’s march would limber up these 
young coxcombs quicker than dancing. Bah, 
I can scarce stomach the sight of their smirk- 
ings and tip-toeings, and a-picking up the 
handkerchiefs of these Whig dames ! ” 


4 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


He seated himself at the massive oak table 
in the centre of the room, drumming impa- 
tiently on the board with his fingers. His 
disturbed feeling passed into contentment as he 
watched the young girl. To him her hands 
appeared even more flower-like than the fragile 
blossoms she lifted stem by stem. In the half- 
dusk of the room the flowers acquired an in- 
tense and delicate whiteness contrasting with 
the subdued richness of coloring in her cos- 
tume. Though bright, the afternoon was cool, 
and she had worn over her riding-habit a 
cardinal, an article of attire much affected by 
the women of those days. This garment, of 
crimson satin and fur-trimmed, she had un- 
clasped and flung back from her shoulders so 
that it made a luxurious setting for her fair 
person. Under his bristling brows the sol- 
dier's small, irate eyes softened as he watched 
her. The fortune of war, he mused, verily, it 
was strange. What rude and freakish wind 
had blown this blossom to his protection ? 
He was a rough soldier, unused to the way of 
delicate women. A girl’s fancy was an un- 
certain thing — as a bird’s flight. Yet, who 
could foretell ? Perhaps, when the war was 
over, and these rebel dogs had been put down 
with a strong hand, it would content her to 
return with the lad and him to the quiet Eng- 
lish home, to be as his daughter in his old age. 
And so amidst thought of the turmoil of war — 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


5 


ay, despite the throbbing of an old wound 
in his shoulder — there slipped this day- 
dream. 

‘‘Your posies are drooping soon, Diane,” he 
said, his eyes resting kindly upon her. 

“ They are wild flowers,” she answered. She 
looked up through the open casement where a 
loosened tendril of a vine swayed against the 
blue sky. A bird flashed by in the sunlight, 
and with a little circling motion sank upon its 
nest built in a network of the Virginia creeper 
which clambered heavily over the opposite wall 
of the court. Her eyes grew dreamy, her face 
softening and losing its alert brightness of ex- 
pression. 

“ There is an orchard in France,” she said 
softly, “ so old that the trees are gnarled and 
bent and bear little fruit; yet, where the 
ground slopes downward, runs a stream, so 
that the grass all around is long and wet, and 
the fleur-de-lis is now in bloom. Sometimes 
there were yellow blossoms among the purple, 
and some were white, were they not, Armand,” 
she asked, addressing a lad who had perched 
himself on the further end of the table, one leg 
doubled under him, his free foot resting lightly 
on the head^of a Danish hound crouched upon 
the floor. He had been playing on a flute, but 
so plaintively sweet and delicate was his music 
that although often continuous, it did not dis- 
turb conversation, having in its quality some- 


6 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


thing of the nature of a flower’s perfume of 
which one may be often but half-conscious. 

He turned at his sister’s question. 

I know, Diane,” he nodded. “ I could And 
them sooner than you. The scent of white 
flowers is stronger.” 

He slipped down from the table and put his 
flute away. 

Stir yourself. Little Brother,” he said, shov- 
ing the hound with his foot. “ Come, bestir 
yourself, great Lazybones,” he added as the 
animal stretched itself, yawning ; will you be 
forever a-nodding off to sleep like an old dame 
in a chimney-corner?” 

With his hand resting caressingly on the 
head of the Great Dane, who walked beside him, 
the lad strolled with a peculiarly hesitating and 
yet direct step towards his sister. He was a 
picturesque and slender figure wearing the garb 
of a mourner. This sable color was relieved 
only by his ruflled shirt of cambric and lace, 
and the massive silver buckles at his knees and 
on his low shoes. At his side dangled a heavy 
sword in a worn sheath. His ash-yellow hair, 
lightly powdered, was worn in a queue. 

Mademoiselle de Berny rose and with her 
handkerchief brushed away some of the powder 
which had drifted upon his coat. 

Don’t, Diane,” he cried,jerking away ; “ you 
can’t make a French dandy out of me. It is 
not I who take after ^at side of the family.” 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


7 


He drew forth his sword and ran his lingers 
lightly down the blade, the bright surface of 
which was spotted as with rust of blood. 

“Ah, Diane,” he mocked, “his I have 
other blood in me.” He stood in the attitude 
of a listener, his head inclined slightly forward. 
The merriment in his face did not appear in 
his eyes, which, large and light gray in color, 
remained expressionless. In them the diamond- 
shaped panes of the casement above were re- 
flected as from some glassy surface. He had 
been blind from birth. His sister not replying, 
he laughed, and returned the sword to the 
sheath. The same strong family type was re- 
vealed in both faces, although the two were but 
half brother and sister. With the exception of 
the coloring, for the girl’s hair and eyes be- 
spoke her French nationality, their features 
were alike save that the oval of her face ap- 
peared longer in the lad and his eyes were set 
nearer together. But in each the high head, 
the handsome profile, and the full and beautiful 
curves of the mouth were similar. Even the 
vein which ran like some faint tracing adown 
Mademoiselle de Berny’s left temple and 
cheek found its prototype in her brother’s 
face. 

“ Methinks mine host slower than Father 
Time,” grumbled General Stirling; “a fine 
country this which chokes one with dust at 
every step of his horse. Ye have no such vile 


8 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


roads in England. There the dew lies on the 
green, and good ale flows plenteously.” 

But as he spoke, the door opened and a 
negro entered with the tray. 

‘‘ Were I an American,” said Mademoiselle 
de Berny, seating herself at the table, ‘‘ my 
fondness for tea would prove me no rebel.” 

General Stirling emptied at a draught the 
mug of ale placed in front of him. 

Don’t trouble your pretty head about the 
rebels ! ” he said, wiping the foam from his 
lips. ‘‘ I fear I am a gruff keeper for so 
dainty a bird. War is a hard mistress. She 
does not make ladies’ men of us, lily-fingered. 
We who have grown old in her service know 
whereof we speak. I remind me of a surgeon 
once saying that the constant sight of suffering 
did not harden him, but on the contrary, made 
it a sorrier thing for him to witness pain, pain 
which he necessarily gave. So with war. After 
the pomp and glory prove hollow and the hey- 
day of youth is past, then comes the realization 
of war. Desolate homes and a waste country, 
fatherless children and women weeping — ” he 
put his elbow on the table and rested his head 
on his hand. ‘‘ I am an old war-horse, my 
little girl, an old war-horse, who in time of 
peace is stupid and to be roused only by the 
scent of battle. Life is a hard lesson. We 
who fight must not look back over the field, 
lest our heart sicken.” 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


9 


Mademoiselle de Berny’s brother had been 
leaning on the back of her chair. 

‘‘No, no, Uncle Henry,'' he cried, “war is 
glorious ! Did not my father say, there was 
fame ? Ah, why could not the good God have 
let him live ? I should enlist if Diane would 
let me. She said they would not take a boy. 
But you can't fool me, Diane. It is because 
I am blind." 

She put up her hand, covering his as it 
rested on her shoulder. 

“In what capacity could you serve, dear," 
she asked. “ Certainly not in action on the 
field, and I know of but one other. You 
would not be a spy, Armand ? " 

“ Why not," said the lad, his face clouding. 
“ What do women know of war ^ Let go my 
hand." He slipped into a chair between her 
and his uncle. 

The young man who had been seated beside 
Mademoiselle de Berny on the bench had not 
changed his position, engrossed in untying a 
knot he had made in the lash of his riding- 
whip. He looked up smiling at the boy’s 
words, directing his amused glance toward the 
young girl. He rose leisurely and, drawing a 
chair up to the table, seated himself beside 
her and opposite General Stirling and his 
nephew. 

“ I fear your temper is too frank, my lad,” 
he said pleasantly, “ for you to win success as 


lO 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


a spy. It takes a less honest man, I fear, to 
serve in that position.'' 

Young Stirling's mouth quivered with piti- 
ful responsiveness, but he did not speak. 

‘‘Trouble not, boy," said his uncle, slapping 
him on the shoulder ; “ your spirit is worth a 
dozen of these hired Hessian louts. Ye'll be 
called on in good time to serve your king." 

Mademoiselle de Berny smiled. “ But not 
as a spy," she said. 

“Tut, tut, Diane," said the soldier; “'tis not 
for a chit of a girl to set up as a judge. Good 
men and true have entered the secret service. 
In that particular I hold myself no whit more 
virtuous than the spy I employ, for do I not 
benefit by him ? " 

“ I have thought differently," she answered 
gravely; “always have I been taught that a spy 
is a necessary evil of war, an instrument whose 
usefulness cannot veneer its hatefulness and 
which burns the fingers of those who touch it." 

General Stirling shook his head. “ Ye 
show an ungentle heart for a young girl," he 
frowned. 

“ The world does not commiserate traitors," 
she retorted, “at least — " 

“You are mistaken there. Mademoiselle," 
interrupted Heyward, his pleasant face acquir- 
ing a shade of earnestness ; “ a spy is no traitor 
who betrays his cause. A spy, be he loyal, 
meeting an ignominious death is a martyr." 


Mademoiselie de B^rny ii 

Perhaps,” she said, shrugging her shoul- 
ders slightly as she passed him a plate of bis- 
cuit ; yet a martyrdom scarcely the choice of 
a gentleman. You agree with me. Monsieur?” 

“In war. Mademoiselle,” he answered, “men 
use the term ‘ patriot ’ in preference to that of 
gentleman.” 

She smiled. In the fashion of the day she 
held daintily in her fingers the lump of sugar, 
then accounted a great luxury, with which to 
sweeten her tea. She took tiny bites of the 
sugar, sipping the fragrant beverage. H er glance 
met Heyward’s curiously over the cup lifted to 
her lips. 

“In peace,” she said, returning the cup to the 
saucer, “the term ‘gentleman’ is permitted but 
one signification, that of a man of honor, but 
war licenses much, and the word ‘patriot’ like 
the mantle of charity covers a multitude of — 
let us sa)^ ‘ gentlemen ’ of divers employment. 
Do I grasp your meaning. Monsieur ? ” 

On the young man’s face, habitually grave, 
with dark eyes over whose intense gaze the lids 
seldom drooped, dawned a smile. A warm 
light came into his glance. 

“There are some women. Mademoiselle,” he 
said, “ whose perfection is such that to disagree 
with them seems not only a reflection upon a 
man’s gallantry, but even makes his opinion 
seem wrong because adverse to theirs. And of 
this argument what shall I say ? That neither 


12 


Ma^lemoiselle de Berny 


of us are, perhaps, in a position to render fair 
judgment ? Yet, doubtless, we can both con- 
ceive of circumstances in which a patriot would 
serve his country gladly, in no matter how ig- 
nominious a way, and, although it seems para- 
doxical, yet maintain his honor. After all, why 
should he be condemned more than the great 
body of soldiers fighting for the same result? 

One is permitted to show preference for 
individuals,’' she said. 

His expression relaxed momentarily into a 
smile, but he leant a little forward with some 
eagerness. 

“ Does not the end sometimes justify the 
means ? A selfish motive only condemns the 
spy. Otherwise he may hold himself invulner- 
able. No accusation stings a quiet conscience.” 
His even voice gained a penetrating quality 
and his eyes burned steadily in an otherwise 
impassive countenance. 

‘‘ Think you it a trivial thing for a man to 
give his life to his country ? But if he goes 
further and lays down that counted dearer than 
life, his reputation as a man of honor among 
honorable men ? Is it a little thing to forego 
the glory of a death on the field amongst the 
foremost, to endure the meanness of a spy’s 
life ? And I have always held it the duty of 
that man, whosoever he is, to serve where he 
is most needed, and if it lies with him to best 
perform a peculiar service necessary to the good 


Mademoiselle de Berny 13 


of his country, he should do it regardless of 
rank.” 

“ Bravo ! sir,” cried the soldier, hitting the 
table with his fist; “you stir my sluggish blood 
anew. But how falls it ye wear the garb of a 
citizen ? And, by my faith, ye seem no coward ! 
Fie on ye, young sir, is it by such passive loy- 
alty ye serve your king ? ” 

“ I can hold neither party entirely blame- 
less,” said Heyward ; “ still my sympathies 
incline — ” 

“Yet sit not idle sucking your thumbs, 
man,” interrupted the other. “ It shows more 
manhood to strike for the party nearest right 
in your estimation, e’en though it be with the 
rebels, and I say it as should not, being loyal 
to King George.” 

Young Stirling had been leaning across the 
table whispering to his sister. He laughed, 
nodding his head, as she refilled his cup of 
tea. He raised the cup high, the liquid 
splashing over. 

“ As good Englishmen,” he cried, “ we will 
pledge the health of King George and drink to 
the downfall of the Boston tea-party.” 

“ Best let the nerve-destroying stuff alone,” 
said General Stirling, gulping down his portion 
with a wry face. 

“ Has every one his tea, now ? ” asked the 
boy. “Pass me the sugar and a spoon, — a 
spoon, Diane.” 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


14 


‘‘In a moment, Armand,” she answered. 
As she passed a cup of tea to Heyward, it 
slipped between their extended fingers, and, 
hitting against the table-edge, fell broken on 
the floor. 

Mademoiselle de Berny rose, gathering the 
train of her riding-habit from the spreading 
liquid. 

“ There is no tea left, now. Monsieur,'* she 
said, “ so you cannot drink the toast." She 
smiled slightly. But though her eyes met his 
indifferently, her face had grown curiously pale. 

General Stirling rose and opened the door, 
letting a flood of sunlight into the sombre 
room. He stepped out into the court-yard 
to order the horses. The kitchen was on the 
further side of the yard, opposite the dining- 
room. Thin white-washed pillars ran in a line 
by house, kitchen, and stable alike, supporting 
the verandah of the former two and the first 
floor of the latter. The walls of red and black 
brick in their checker-board regularity sug- 
gested the staid Quaker. Through the arch- 
way in the low wall opposite the stable could 
be seen the street and the varying forms of 
people passing by. A vine climbed over this 
wall, wreathing the arch heavily in green. The 
officer sauntered tov/ards the stable, his pom- 
pous little figure in its scarlet uniform brilliant 
in the mellow sunlight of the latening after- 
noon. 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


15 


In the dining-room, Richard Heyward leant 
against the table, watching Mademoiselle de 
Berny as she drew on her gloves. 

Young Stirling at the further end of the 
room was feeding biscuit to his dog. He 
moved back against the man sleeping in the 
corner, who had changed his position but 
slightly since the party had entered the room, 
and then only to relapse into seemingly deeper 
slumber. 

I beg your pardon, sir,'* said the lad, bow- 
ing with a fine and marked courtesy. 

A heavily drawn breath was his only reply. 

He waited a moment. Then he stretched 
out his hand and passed it delicately over the 
great body and the face with its closed lids and 
open mouth. 

‘‘Your foolish large mouth argues more 
body than wit, friend,” chuckled the lad, 
slowly withdrawing his hand from the man’s 
cheek. 

The eyes of the sleeper opened and shot 
a quick glance at the boy. 

Like a flash young Stirling’s hand covered 
the man’s eyes and felt the lashes brush his 
fingers as the lids closed again. He bent his 
beautiful face down so that his breath stirred 
the other’s hair. 

“ A-a-h, my friend,” he said, laughing softly 
and speaking in a whisper, “you were not 
asleep.” 


Chapter II 

T he other two occupants of the room 
were oblivious to the incident, the young 
man being engrossed in buttoning one of 
Mademoiselle de Berny’s gloves, while she 
was observing him as he did so with an intent 
gaze which took in every detail of his costume 
from his brown hair unpowdered and tied with 
a ribbon, to the boutonniere she herself had 
pinned on the lapel of his bottle-green coat, 
made high-collared and with gilt buttons ; the 
full lace ruffles at his breast and wrists ; his 
buff cassimere breeches and high riding-boots. 
He, growing conscious of her attentive regard, 
glanced up inquiringly. 

“ Monsieur,'' she said, in answer to his un- 
spoken question, “ I cannot help wondering 
why a man whose sentiments are so fine and 
patriotic should wear citizen's dress and make 
no effort to prove his valor as a soldier. Your 
words sounded curiously in my ears as well as 
in General Stirling's." 

His head was bent low over her wrist, but 
she saw the color rise to the roots of his hair. 

You are very hard on me. Mademoiselle," 
he said, with a slight protesting laugh ; “ have 

i6 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


17 


you yet to learn 'tis man's weakness to profess 
much that, Spartan-like, you would force him 
to prove his words by deeds ? Alas, how 
clumsy a man's fingers ! " he added lightly, 
“ how fine a woman's veriest trifle ! There's 
another button gone, but have patience a mo- 
ment longer." 

“A man may profess much, intending little," 
she said, “but I do you no such injustice. 
You spoke in no half-hearted fashion, but 
bravely, this afternoon. Yet when a citizen 
gives to patriotic sentiment such a tone of 
feeling, one says, ah, a soldier at heart, but on 
which side?" 

She felt a tremor run through his fingers. 
He had buttoned her glove, but still held her 
wrist. 

“ Monsieur," she continued, “ how was it 
that when I passed you the cup of tea this 
afternoon, your fingers slipped and the tea 
was lost ? You know what people say — that 
no upright loyalist refuses to pledge the health 
of his king in tea." 

He dropped her wrist, and lifting his head, 
met her glance. 

“ And how does that concern me. Mademoi- 
selle ? " he asked, his mouth settling into hard 
lines. 

“To this extent. Monsieur," she said, “to 
this extent." She looked around the room. 
In his corner the Quaker had taken an atti- 


i8 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


tude of profounder slumber, putting his feet 
and legs up on the bench and drawing his hat 
over his eyes. On the further side of the 
table, her brother sat on the bench, feeding 
cake to his hound. Then her gaze returned 
to Heyward. In their acquaintance he had 
been puzzled by certain unaccountable changes 
in her manner from ease and gaiety to coldness 
and annoyance. Now it seemed as if that feel- 
ing, which had hitherto shown itself in fitful 
bursts of anger and little sparkles of irritation, 
had suddenly broken bounds and flamed forth 
with the force of a burning challenge. 

“ Tell me,'' she said, lowering her tone, 
tell me, why I have not the right to refuse 
to associate with one who — " the scornful 
words trembled unuttered on her lips. 

“ Monsieur," she continued after a slight 
pause, I spoke of your dress a moment ago. 
Why ? Because although it is the attire of a 
gentleman, yet worn by you it signifies some- 
thing less. Do you think that it needed but 
the spilling of the tea to tell me what your 
position is ? Ah, Monsieur, I scorn to say it ! 
It shames me to know that you are here as a 
spy ! ” 

Except for the death-like pallor which 
spread over his face, he showed no emotion. 

“ Do you desire to insult me. Mademoiselle 
de Berny ? " he said coldly. His face was set 
in a calm which would not be disturbed, but 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


19 


beneath the lids, as he looked down at her, his 
eyes seemed a line of gleaming light, cold and 
suspicious. 

As she met his glance, his changed glance, 
in which hitherto she had read all warmth and 
trust, her face flamed with passionate anger. 

Insult you,” she echoed stingingly, “insult 
you ! Ah, Monsieur, doubtless your position 
leads you to forget there are those who are 
generally considered to have lost the right to 
resent an affront.” 

He turned and walked towards the half-open 
door, seeking to maintain his composure. 

Mademoiselle de Berny's eyes followed him 
wrathfully. Her mouth quivered, and the 
anger in her eyes gave way to pride deeply 
wounded. She went towards him to go into 
the court-yard. He, divining her intention, 
stepped back, opening wide the door, bowing 
profoundly as she passed him. She did not 
vouchsafe him a glance. On the verandah she 
turned and looked back past him into the room 
where her brother still remained. He had 
thrown himself lengthwise wearily on the bench 
and appeared to be sleeping. As she observed 
his fair hair, his slender form clothed in the 
mourning garments he could not be persuaded 
to discard since his father’s death over a year 
ago, her face softened magically. 

“Armand,” she called gently, “Armand,” 
waiting to see that he heard her, “ we must go.” 


20 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


Then as he sat up, stretching his arms and 
yawning, she turned and went down the steps as 
the groom brought up her horse. 

Heyward watched her hungrily, his heart 
torn by conflicting emotions. Her horse bent 
its head to a lump of sugar she held in her 
palm, and which during lunch she had taken 
from the table and slipped in the pocket of her 
cardinal for it. The extravagance of the action 
at that time, when sugar was accounted a luxury 
even by the very rich, filled him with bitter 
resentment. The incident, trifling though it 
was, yet seemed to separate them more surely 
than the words which had just passed between 
them. What comprehension had she of the 
suffering and oppression which drove men to 
endure famine and cold for liberty — she, to 
whom life signified naught save beauty and 
pleasant ease ? Long shadows of the departing 
day lay across the little court, but did not touch 
her upon whose slender figure the brightness 
of the afternoon seemed to be concentrated. 
Her plumed hat shaded her face so that he 
could see but the rounded chin, the curving 
lips, as vividly crimson as the cardinal hanging 
loosely from her shoulders. Against the rich 
satin the gray fur trimming of the garment 
acquired an electrical silvery lustre. And as 
all that was lovely and to be desired centred 
in lier, so also did it seem to him that he stood 
in the shadow of whatever was ignoble and to 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


21 


be despised in the estimate of men. Now he 
felt himself under a ban of contumely which 
not even her hands, although they should be 
extended to him, might push aside. 

“ Hasten, young sir,” cried General Stirling, 
impatiently, are ye gone o’ day-dreaming ? 
What o’ the lad, Diane ? But here he comes,” 
he added, as his nephew emerged from the inte- 
rior, his hands in his pockets, whistling, the 
sun shining full in his unwinking, sightless eyes. 

Heyward reentered the room to procure 
his gloves and hat, which, with his riding-whip, 
lay on the table near the mass of wild flowers 
Mademoiselle de Berny had discarded. He 
looked at the drooping blossoms a moment, 
but did not offer to touch them. With a 
heavy sigh he drew forth his handkerchief, — a 
letter slipping unperceived from his pocket to 
the floor as he did so, — and passed it over his 
forehead, on which appeared the cold beads of 
perspiration. 

After he had left the room a curious scene 
was enacted. The Quaker whirled his feet 
suddenly off the bench, and rose, stretching 
himself. But he moved, as if unconsciously, 
toward the letter, until sufficiently near to cover 
it by his foot at the next step. As this was 
about to happen, young Stirling’s dog picked 
up the paper. The fellow bent and spoke 
coaxingly to the hound, patting its head, and 
pulling gently at the letter held between his 


22 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


teeth. The animal growled angrily. His 
owner heard and called him, and the dog 
trotted out of the room, retaining the letter. 

In the street outside the archway, Richard 
Heyward, pleading an engagement, said good- 
afternoon, and, turning his horse, rode away in 
the direction opposite to that which was taken 
by the rest of the party. 

The young man was not gallant, Diane,” 
observed General Stirling, his eyes twinkling. 
‘‘What did ye to him that he left us in such 
hasty fashion ? ” 

“ I,” she answered, “ I but asked him a 
simple question, were the tea I poured too 
sweet or too bitter that he spilled it, and lo, he 
frowned as at some sorry jest.” 

“Ye jest far,” said the soldier; “’twas a reflec- 
tion on the man’s honor ye made, Diane. Thy 
idle words are oft-times barbed.” 

She laughed. “If the coat fits,” she said 
airily. 

“ Hark ye, my girl,” he said, his shaggy 
eyebrows drawn together in a heavy frown 
and raising one hand in emphasis of his words, 
“ lest such careless hinting breathe dishonor on 
a man’s fair name as a breath dims the bright 
steel.” 

“ But you breathe on a blade,” she retorted 
with a certain arch mischievousness which well 
became her, “ and, but a moment, be the steel 
good, the mist vanishes.” 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


23 


The soldier smiled, half-resentful, yet wholly 
charmed. ‘‘ Ye make poor excuse for an un- 
gentle heart, Diane,’' he said, shaking his head. 

‘‘You are a fussy old dame, dear uncle,” 
she rejoined sweetly, “ with your preaching and 
your scoldings, which like so many concoctions 
of herbs are excellent but not diverting.” 

Social life was awakening in Philadelphia 
after the torpor of the long day. 

The shadows of the houses already stretched 
across the cobble-stone pavement as the little 
party walked their horses leisurely down Second 
Street, but above their heads the sky was still 
deeply blue, and the steep roofs with their 
quaint pent-eaves and ponderous cornices were 
touched by the lingering gold of the last sun- 
rays. On the low front stoops the belles in 
brocaded gowns, spread to advantage over 
enormous hoops, were waiting with stately 
serenity the coming of the beaux. And there 
were to be seen many sweet and natural faces 
despite the coquetry of black patches on rose- 
tinted cheeks and chins and the heads loaded 
by immense cushions over which was drawn 
the powdered hair. Their feet in high-heeled 
slippers and huge buckles were crossed to dis- 
play the slender ankles. Good loyalists in 
wigs and smallclothes were meeting in neigh- 
borly converse, exchanging the courtesy of the 
snuff-box and the last choice scandal, passing 
the news from the mother-country and indulg- 


24 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


ing in many a witticism at the expense of the 
starving rebels at Valley Forge — so many rats 
driven into a hole, snarling at the prosperity of 
the sleek loyalists. Ay, but they had had a 
long winter to cool the white glow of their 
fervor ! 

Frequent glances were cast upon General 
Stirling and his companion as they walked 
their horses abreast, conversing but little. In 
front of them rode the boy, his hound at his 
horse’s heels. Beside him was an orderly of 
the general’s, mounted and in close attention 
upon the blind rider. Gay young British offi- 
cers hovering around those stoops where pretty 
girls held court, drawn as irresistibly to the 
spot as bees to honey, were discussing the fete 
to be given in honor of the retiring commander. 
Lord Howe, who had been recalled to England. 
Never had the citizens of a captive city passed 
a winter more gaily social. But the prospec- 
tive instatement of Sir Henry Clinton menaced 
this gaiety, threatening a speedy end. Now for 
the first time was attention paid to those 
veteran soldiers who, like unpleasant birds of 
warning, had croaked the winter through that 
the loose discipline of the army was doing more 
to weaken it than any battles yet experienced. 
Their chagrin at the follies and inaction of the 
troops grew greater as certain of the officers 
treated as a jest a rebuke which should have 
been the keenest mortification. Of these, one 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


25 


who had most loudly voiced his irritation and 
waxed most hotly contemptuous was General 
Stirling. Muttered comments were made and 
unfriendly looks cast upon the little man as he 
sat stiffly astride his huge gray horse, glancing 
seldom either to the left or right, his face set 
grim, acknowledging surlily the salutes of the 
young officers. 

‘‘An army of Miss Nancys,” he said, snort- 
ing with contempt as he and his companions 
drew to one side of the narrow street to make 
way for a coach drawn by four horses, and pre- 
ceded by outriders. The coach-horses, milk- 
white and gaily caparisoned, trotted briskly 
down the street. In the coach, which had great 
bravery of gilding and upholstery, reclined 
Lord Howe, the retiring commander. With 
much pleasant bowing did he turn his head 
from side to side, his horses slackening into a 
walk. Once did he raise his hat with more 
than usual elaborate courtesy as he passed the 
former owner of the coach and four, a wealthy 
spinster, who had yielded with ill-grace to the 
forced lending of her property. His urbane 
bow was returned but sourly by the powdered 
dame from the faded sedan chair in which she 
was being carried along the sidewalk by slaves. 

Although quick to perceive the humor of a 
situation. Mademoiselle de Berny did not smile 
at this incident, returning Lord Howe’s bow 
but absently, as he turned towards her and 


26 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


General Stirling. As the little party continued 
its way, she drew from her reticule the letter 
her brother had taken from his dog and given 
to her to hold for him. The paper, unad- 
dressed and folded to form the envelope, was 
fastened by black wax, the seal of which she 
recognized as Richard Heyward’s. Her hand 
trembled. A variety of emotions showed in 
her countenance, scorn impelling her to toss 
the paper away ; anxiety as she glanced at 
General Stirling, lest he should be curious of 
the contents, but he seemed absorbed in deep 
thought ; lastly, a defiant expression which yet 
revealed an underlying tenderness as she re- 
placed the letter in the reticule. 

“ Did you read that, Diane ? ” asked her 
brother, turning in his saddle. 

‘‘No,” she answered; “Mr. Heyward must 
have dropped it.” 

“ Give it back to me, then,” he said, stretch- 
ing out his hand. His horse veered. He 
felt for the reins, which he had let go for a 
moment. The orderly had reached over and 
taken them. 

“ Let my horse alone, sirrah,” cried the boy, 
his face all aflame. “ I granted you permission 
to ride beside me in case of accident or unsafe 
road, but I will not be put in leading-strings ! 
My horse obeys me at a word.” He gathered 
the reins in one hand and took his whip in the 
other. 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


27 


‘‘ This fellow is all Diane's doing,” he mut- 
tered. ‘‘I am no child. Some day I shall 
teach her a lesson for this.” Raising his whip, 
he struck his horse several times. The ani- 
mal reared and plunged violently, but its rider 
had it in superb control. 

‘‘ There, Diane,” he called over his shoulder. 
“ There,” hitting his horse again and again, 
“and there.” He, laughing and breathless in 
his excitement forgot, for the time being, the 
letter. 

Orders were issued in Philadelphia the fol- 
lowing day for the arrest of one Richard Hey- 
ward, a spy of the Continental Army, hitherto 
known as a loyalist. Indignation at the ac- 
cusation was loudly expressed by the friends of 
the young man. But when it was learned that 
several days previous he had obtained a pass- 
port to go beyond the lines and at nightfall 
he had not been found, no further proof of 
his guilt seemed needed. 

Mademoiselle de Berny heard the news, her 
mouth quivering with scorn. So at her words 
he had turned and fled craven-hearted — a spy 
fleeing the wrath of honest men. In a brief mo- 
ment had her whilom lover become an enemy. 
But a direct question as to his honor, and the 
cloven hoof had shown. Well, he had escaped. 
He was in safety, at all events. He had passed 
out of her life, going without an explanation or 
a farewell, as a thief in the night. Yet, though 


28 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


she puzzled long over the fact as to how his 
position could have become so quickly known, 
she could not bring herself to ask any questions, 
dreading with a sensitiveness almost abnormal 
to hear any comments made upon his base posi- 
tion and cowardly flight. 

The day following this she was destined to re- 
ceive a still greater shock. The orderly who 
accompanied her brother when he rode sought 
her in great distress. He was one of the hired 
Hessian troops, a faithful, stupid fellow. His 
yellow hair was matted to his forehead by per- 
spiration ; his round face, red and streaked with 
dust from rapid riding, was lined with anxiety. 
Young Stirling’s horse, whose reins he had 
fastened to his own saddle, was riderless. It 
appeared that the boy, always indulged in his 
fondness for riding in the country, had received 
permission from his uncle to go to Frankfort, 
a small milling centre, five miles from the city. 
Once there, he had dismounted at the Jolly 
Post, and bidding the orderly see to the horses, 
had given him some money with the injunction 
to spend an hour or so in good company, while 
he with his dog amused himself sauntering 
through the village. The fellow finding right 
hearty cheer and good comrades, waited well 
content until noon. Then as his young master 
did not come, he engaged in a vain search for 
him. Several children reported having seen 
him and his dog walking rapidly down the 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


29 


forest road, which was in reality a continuation 
of the one village street. The orderly had fol- 
lowed the road some distance, but his search 
proving futile, and fearing the approach of 
night, he returned to Philadelphia for assist- 
ance, having already taken the precaution of 
sending some country people to look for the 
missing boy. General Stirling and a guard 
rode out the Frankfort road, searching high 
and low in the vicinity of the village, lighting 
torches as it grew darker, advancing a long dis- 
tance into the wood. To their hallooing there 
was no response save the lonely baying of a 
farm dog. That the lad had either wandered 
far into the forest or been picked up by some 
passer-by there could be no doubt. 

Mademoiselle de Berny waited in an agony 
of suspense at the gateway of the Quaker 
house where she resided, her strained gaze 
striving to penetrate the darkness at the bend 
of the street, from which direction the search- 
ing-party would return. A fitful wind was 
blowing ; the swayings and sighings of the 
trees caused her to shiver with apprehension. 
High in the heavens the moon appeared 
through swiftly moving clouds. Her fears 
took the form of wildest imaginings. Now 
she saw her brother make a misstep and fall 
into the stream ; now he ran against a tree, 
bruising himself, or he wandered off the road ; 
perhaps the far worse fate overtook him of 


30 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


falling into the hands of a band of Tory ma- 
rauders, the terror of the country-side. She 
could hear him sobbing her name as when a 
little child he had awakened in the night and 
missed her. So real was his imagined cry that 
she put her hands over her ears, moaning. As 
she strove to control herself and think clearly, 
it seemed to her that his action was not impul- 
sive, but evidently deliberately planned. Her 
mind travelled slowly over the events of the 
past few days, striving to find some clue to his 
conduct. Struck by a sudden thought, she 
turned and walked swiftly back to the house, 
and entering ascended the stairs to her room. 
She opened her desk and touched the spring of 
a secret compartment known only to herself 
and her brother. The letter she had concealed 
there was gone ! 

The wind blew the white curtains at her 
casement fantastically. The little oil lamp on 
her dressing-table flared wildly, filling the room 
with smoke. But the young girl seated at her 
desk, her chin resting in the palms of her hands, 
noticed nothing, deep in painful thought, her 
gaze fixed on the rifled drawer. The solution 
of her brother’s escapade was clear to her now. 
Armand, in a spirit of adventure, had gone to 
Valley Forge, — whither Richard Heyward had 
evidently fled, — intent upon returning the letter 
to its rightful owner. Now, as an added pang to 
her anxiety was the humiliation of knowing that 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


31 


over Armand as well as herself, Richard Hey- 
ward had exerted an irresistible charm, so that 
the lad’s chief delight had lain in the young 
man’s society. It seemed an exhibition of this 
man’s power, an added insolence on his part, as 
it were, that her brother should disregard her 
to go to him. She pictured Armand, frail and 
blind, trudging a lonely road, his faithful hound 
at his side, on his errand of loyalty and love to 
one who, while gratified at the return of the 
letter, was yet amused at the lad’s preference — 
an echo of the sister’s heart ! Her powerlessness 
was the most torturing humiliation to her. 
Could she by any means have wrested Armand 
away from Heyward, with whom he probably was, 
and have torn the unfortunate letter in pieces — 
her hands clinched in helpless resentment and 
her eyes filled with burning tears of anger. 
There was the trampling of horses’ hoofs on 
the cobble-stone pavement, growing steadily 
louder. She pushed aside the curtains and 
leant out of the casement. She saw the weary 
searchers, whose dejected attitude, as they walked 
their horses up the street, betrayed their failure. 
General Stirling dismounted in front of the 
house, bidding the rest of the party wait. He 
opened the gate into the yard. Mademoiselle 
de Berny had almost flown down the stairway 
and met him, ere he had advanced half-way up 
the flower-bordered walk which led to the 
house. As the light from the hallway fell 


32 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


upon his perturbed and troubled countenance, 
his scarlet uniform covered with dust and still 
damp from a light rain which had fallen early 
in the evening ; the gold lace torn ; above all, his 
hand lacerated by the broken limb of a tree, — 
she realized how serious and arduous had been 
his search. All anger and thought of Heyward 
were swept away in the renewed flood of anxiety 
for Armand, which made her solution of his 
disappearance seem for the moment an ab- 
surdity, with a criminal aspect, considering the 
tragic present. 

“There, there,” said General Stirling, smooth- 
ing her hair with awkward tenderness, as she 
stood sobbing, her face hidden on his shoulder, 
her slender arms clasping convulsively his stal- 
wart figure ; “ we will find him to-morrow. I 
will prove ye then the truth o’ my words, that he 
is in safe keeping. Ye must not weep so, Diane. 
It hurts me sorely. Diane, ye will break my 
heart to cry so. My little girl, the boy is safe.” 

And though the missing lad was his only 
nephew, and the girl, his niece by courtesy 
merely, being the step-daughter of his dead 
brother, yet was he more troubled by her tears 
than by the boy’s absence, and felt an anger 
which made his kindly face grow stern as he 
looked at the little mournful head resting on 
his shoulder. He had no patience of pranks 
which caused such weeping, having always a 
great tenderness for the weakness of women. 


Chapter III 

V ERY early the following morning, while 
the stars still shone palely, two shadowy 
figures passed swiftly through the sleep- 
ing city. The shorter and stouter of these two 
figures wore the gray garb and bonnet of a 
Quakeress. The other was attired in a long 
drab garment, the hood of which the wearer 
had pulled well over her head, giving her a 
cloister-like appearance. The light growing 
stronger revealed these two women to be Mad- 
emoiselle de Berny and Rachel Mott, the latter 
an elder maiden daughter of the family with 
whom the young girl and her brother made 
their home while in Philadelphia. 

Mademoiselle de Berny addressed her com- 
panion. “ You are sure we will be able to pass 
the line, Rachel ? ” 

“Yea, if thou wilt but say I am thy maid 
come to carry the flour,” answered the other, 
who bore an empty sack on one arm. 

“ Give me the passport now,” said the young 
girl, “ that I may have it in readiness.” 

At that time the citizens of Philadelphia 
were allowed by the British to obtain flour 
from the Frankfort mills. When, therefore, 
the previous evening, Rachel Mott, a Quaker- 
D 33 


36 Madem^io^lp. de Berny 

violent temper and a profane tongue towards 
those he loyeth not that vex him.” 

Now she trudged patiently at Mademoiselle’s 
side, her timorous and maidenly soul still 
doubting and protesting, but saying naught 
to her companion who pressed on hurriedly, 
ever a little in advance in her eagerness and 
anxiety. 

The young girl took but little into account 
the peril which a woman surely courted who 
ventured to travel alone in the present trouble- 
some times. Only the peculiar circumstances 
of her life allowed her to so ignore the rashness 
of this errand. From the seclusion of a con- 
vent, she had become one of the gay whirlpool 
of a licensed and unrestrained court society, 
which latter condition she had left for the even 
freer and more changeful environment of army 
life that her companionship with her step- 
father, and since his death, with General Stirling, 
had given her. And in common with her 
brother she possessed a daring spirit and a love 
of adventure which caused her rather to invite 
than to shun peril. So, although she had 
taken the precaution to wear a Friend’s cloak, 
which was an effectual masque, she had dis- 
missed any vague thought of personal danger as a 
matter of secondary importance where Armand 
was concerned. Upon him she lavished that 
tenderness of love, which his dead mother 
might have given, idolizing him, worshipping 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


37 


his delicacy and beauty, comprehending him 
through his likeness to her, ashamed of her 
jealousy of his constant thought of his father, 
whose death had not made him less to his son, 
and yet understanding this faithfulness in the 
boy by the very love which made her desires 
centre in him. She felt the dauntless self-reli- 
ance women experience when loved ones are in 
danger. This confidence in their own ability, 
the desire to take matters into their own hands, 
which women have at such times, appears to 
spring from the maternal sense of protection, 
which ignoring danger to self instinctively feels 
the heart the surest loadstone. And there 
were doubtless other motives prompting Mad- 
emoiselle de Berny upon this occasion, motives 
of which she was unconscious. She had not 
confided her intention of going to Valley Forge 
to General Stirling, knowing that he would un- 
compromisingly condemn as unfeasible her proj- 
ect to follow her brother, and would seek to 
reassure her by stating that the searching-party 
would again be sent out. Yet, she knew well 
their search would be in vain had Armand 
reached the rebel camp. She, a woman and 
alone, would doubtless be permitted to pass the 
American lines. A deeper motive actuated 
this secrecy, a motive which she would not 
have confessed even to herself, and would have 
indignantly denied if accused of possessing. 
Her statements of the reasons which led her 


38 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


to believe that Armand had gone to Valley 
Forge would involve the explaining of the 
letter, and from this she shrank, recoiling as 
one from a touch upon an unhealed wound, 
the mention of Richard Heyward. 

In the east the dawn was whitening. There 
was heard the twitter of waking birds. The 
tree-tops swayed in the sharp breeze which is 
born just before dawn and dies down. The 
young girl shivered, drawing her cloak closely 
around her. She looked up. Far above in the 
heavens a few stars were still shining, but so 
faintly as to be scarcely luminous. As she 
lowered her glance she saw that the long line 
of light in the east was slowly brightening into 
gold. They were nearing the city limits. 
Small signs of the day’s activities appeared. 
As they passed the court-house which stood 
on arches built on brick pillars, they caught 
glimpses in these arched apertures of venders 
arranging their vegetables for the morning 
market. From out the cool dusk glimmered 
the orange of carrots, the glossy leaves of the 
wintergreen with its scarlet berries, bundles 
of sassafras bark, potatoes, the gold of sweet 
country butter, Indian baskets filled with maple 
sugar, deliciously fresh. On the further side 
of the street the hucksters’ wagons were ar- 
rayed in a long row. An old man climbed 
painfully the flight of stairs leading to the tiny 
balcony over the main entrance of the building. 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


39 


A moment later and the bell in the little cupola 
rang out unevenly but sweetly. 

“ It is five o* the clock/’ said Rachel 
Mott. 

A milk wagon loomed up grayly, rattling 
over the cobble-stone pavement. The driver 
was whistling cheerily. Mademoiselle de Berny 
called to him, and he drew up his horses close 
to the curbstone. He was a fresh-cheeked 
country lad, shrewd eyed, and with a merry 
smile. At her request he filled the cover of a 
can with milk for herself and her companion. 
He refused payment. 

“’Tis enough in these days to be asked civ- 
illy for a draught of milk,” he said. But 
yesterday those thieving British rogues, the 
sentry, helped themselves freely enough to my 
ware. And the cream ! Why, mon, says I to 
one fellow, do you think it naught but milk, 
and skimmed at that ! Ye should have seen 
the likes o’ them, ma’am ! The way that cream, 
yellow as a buttercup, slipped down their saucy 
throats ! Small thanks to them, says I, that 
they didn’t spill on the ground what they didn’t 
want.” 

The British rogues,” repeated Mademoi- 
selle de Berny ; are you then a Whig ? ” 

Eh, no, lady,” he answered with a hearty 
laugh and a sly wink over his shoulder at the 
Quakeress ; ‘‘ ye’ll find me mealy mouthed as 
any Friend and no such ninny as to answer 


40 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


that question unless ye tell me first which side 
ye be on/’ 

She smiled. I have no concern in the 
matter,” she said. ‘‘ How near the lines are 
we now ? ” 

He pointed backward with his whip. ‘‘ A 
ten minutes’ walk straight ahead o’ ye.” 

She paused to inquire if he had any news of 
her brother. He replied in the negative. 

As the two women approached the redoubt, 
beyond which lay the Frankfort road. Madem- 
oiselle de Berny drew her hood further over 
her head. She knew the place to be garrisoned 
by the Queen’s Rangers, under the command 
of an officer with whom she had some acquaint- 
ance, and she preferred to pass unrecognized by 
him, if possible. They saw but the sentry, 
however, who allowed them to proceed without 
trouble. A moment later they stepped upon 
the Frankfort road and received the free sweep 
of air across the country which was, in general, 
cleared ground, but intersected by many woods 
and high fences. From the dark fields rose 
vaporish mists, winding away like ghosts of 
the vanished night. The line of gold in the 
east widened. The tree-tops caught the bright- 
ening reflection. Flocks of small clouds 
became a luminous rose color, moving slowly 
towards the horizon. The breeze rose briskly, 
fragrant with the odor of the fresh, damp air 
and subtly suggestive of country life. Madem- 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


41 


oiselle de Berny pushed back the hood of her 
cloak with a sigh of relief. Her eyes, sombre 
from a sleepless night, had the strained expres- 
sion of one striving to perceive something as 
yet beyond the range of vision. She had a 
curious fancy that but a few steps further, 
a turn of the road, and she should catch a 
glimpse of her brother with his dog walking 
ahead of her. She found herself hastening 
at every curve of the highway, her lips invol- 
untarily forming his name to call to him. And 
always when she had passed the turn she 
dropped back into a slower pace with a sickening 
pang of disappointment, despite the unreason- 
ableness of the fancy. 

Now country-folk appeared, the goodwife 
seated on a pillion behind her husband, hold- 
ing a basketful of eggs or a firkin of butter, and 
always a bright nosegay of hardy garden flowers. 
Farmers appeared at intervals, a forlorn set 
of men, as they jogged disconsolately along, 
their wagons half-empty. In constant danger 
of seeing their fields robbed or trampled upon 
by cavalry, and in some instances set afire, 
they lacked courage to sow anew or to raise 
more than a few vegetables. 

Of these people Mademoiselle de Berny in- 
quired vainly for news of her brother. On 
either side of them stretched the woods, high 
rails fencing it from the road. Where some 
distance ahead the road made an abrupt turn. 


42 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


the two women caught a glimpse of horsemen 
through the trees and the sparkle and flash of 
sunlight hitting upon steel. The ground trem- 
bled. There was a thundering and increasing 
sound of trampling. The Quakeress drew her 
companion quickly to one side of the road 
close to the fence. She was none too soon. 
Down the road came a drove of cattle. Clouds 
of dust, golden in the sunlight, rose volumi- 
nously as smoke concealing the last of the drove. 
But through the dust could be seen the glossy 
hides of black cattle and red and white of 
another breed. There were about a hundred 
head, sleek and well fed. When they had 
passed, and the dust had settled slightly, there 
appeared some little distance behind a party of 
British cavalry, laughing and talking in a gale 
of good spirits. The two women recognized 
them as belonging to the Queen’s Rangers, a 
corps of native American loyalists drawn from 
Connecticut. A brave showing they made in 
the fresh morning, all young and stalwart men, 
their horses black or roan and their uniforms a 
clear fine green, in color like unto those worn 
by Robin Hood and his men in the old forest 
of Sherwood. These uniforms put on at the 
close of winter, as the earth took on its 
spring-like garb of green, would by autumn 
have nearly faded with the leaves, retaining 
their most desirable characteristic of being 
scarcely discernible at a distance. The com- 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


43 


manding officer drew rein, inquiring of the 
Quakeress if he could be of any assistance to 
her and her companion, glancing sharply as he 
spoke at Mademoiselle de Berny who stood 
with averted head, her hood drawn so closely 
as to well-nigh conceal her countenance. At 
the Quakeress' simple explanation that they 
were on their way to procure flour at Frank- 
fort, he permitted them to proceed without 
further question. They had gone but a little 
way, however, when they heard the galloping 
of a horse behind them. The officer, leaving 
his men standing, had ridden back to offer the 
services of one of his soldiers to carry the bag 
on his saddle back to Philadelphia, as it would 
doubtless be heavy. As he spoke his gaze was 
fixed with undisguised curiosity and almost sus- 
picion upon Mademoiselle’s shrouded figure, 
whose face he could not see, but the distinc- 
tion of whose bearing illy concealed by the 
Quaker garment convinced him that this was 
no ordinary personage, but a gentlewoman who 
wore the cloak as a disguise, and the profession 
on whose part of such an errand was odd, even 
calculated to raise suspicion in those Philadel- 
phian days, when the fine ladies were carried 
in sedan chairs, and who called a slave to pick 
up the handkerchiefs they dropped. But his 
curiosity was baffled as the Quakeress again re- 
plied that she was the maid come to carry the 
flour and that the sack would be light weight. 


44 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


He asked to see their passport, however, and 
examined it carefully, returning it without com- 
ment and, bidding them good morning, rejoined 
his party. 

Beyond a rustic bridge spanning^ a creek, on 
a wooded height, they could see the village of 
Frankfort. It was seven o’clock when they 
reached it. 

‘‘ Do you know, Rachel,” said Mademoiselle 
de Berny, as they reached the top of the hill, 
panting from the exertion of climbing, ‘‘ I 
feel always as if I were part of a picture when 
I come here and had none other reality than a 
figure in the landscape. It makes me think 
of the German towns across the water. Ah, 
Rachel, how it saddens me. What joy is there 
to me in pictures when Armand cannot see ? ” 

The little Quakeress, mild eyed and gentle 
as a dove, her rapid breathing fluttering the 
white kerchief crossed over her breast, answered 
with up-raised eyes : Knowest thou not, 

Diane, that the Good Book saith that the lust 
of the flesh and the lust of eyes and the pride 
of the flesh is not of God, but of the world ? 
Bethink thee. of those who have eyes yet see 
not. H ow sad is that. Oft have I heard it 
said by reverend and elderly people that the 
afflicted are those favored of the Lord.” 

Mademoiselle de Berny looked down into 
the honest eyes of her companion — the blue 
and simple eyes which seemed but to mirror 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


45 


holy thoughts. She put her ov/n arm around 
the gray-clad shoulders, and laid her cheek a 
moment against the Quakeress’. “ Rachel,” 
she said, ‘‘ you are ten years older than I, yet 
you are as a little child. But I am not so 
blessed. You are so good that your prayers 
will avail more than mine. Pray we shall find 
him soon. No, no, Rachel ; not a word ! 
Waste no time in speech, nor even pause to 
think, but pray ; pray as heartily as if ’twere 
the salvation of your own soul you sought ; 
and I,” she added laughing, “will look out for 
the things of this world ; but you cease not 
to pray, or I shall do you an ill-turn for it, 
Rachel.” 

Along the one street which formed the vil- 
lage were clumps of cherry and plum trees 
wrapped in the fragrant white mist of their 
blossoms. Here and there a peach tree blew 
pink in blossom, like a blush of spring. Grass 
grew in the street. Business was at a stand- 
still. Now and then they passed fences and 
rails which had been torn up and made into 
temporary huts for soldiers, but were now de- 
serted. The houses were low and built of 
stone. The doors, divided into two parts, 
were mostly closed, although it was not overly 
early in the morning. They passed a house 
in which the upper part of the door was open, 
the lower half closed to keep the domestic ani- 
mals from running into the house. Appear- 


46 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


ing in the upper half, as a picture in a frame, a 
contemplative German, smoking a pipe, nodded 
good morning to them. A dog barked at their 
heels. As they drew near the end of the vil- 
lage they heard the cheery clacking of the 
wheel and the splashing of the mill-stream. 
The miller, a stout, florid fellow, his blouse 
and hair powdered with flour, informed Mad- 
emoiselle de Berny that a boy and a dog, an- 
swering her description, had paused at the mill 
yester morning, asking the way to the rebels* 
camp up the Schuylkill. He had then crossed 
the little mill-stream at the ford further down 
a few steps. Yes, some soldiers had inquired 
for him. Blind ? He had not noticed. But 
now that he thought of it, he recollected the 
strange look o’ the lad’s eyes. Some one, a 
Quaker, he judged from the broad-brimmed 
hat and drab clothes, met him away down the 
road, beyond the stream. The lad had a pleas- 
ant way. He was her brother, perhaps, only 
his skin was fairer. And his hair he had ob- 
served, because it was the color of his own 
little daughter’s — the tint o’ corn when it was 
near to ripening. 

The Quakeress seated herself wearily on a 
bench near the door, but Mademoiselle de 
Berny stood looking over the stream with 
troubled eyes. The sunlight fell on her 
slender figure and her sad face. 

“ I shall go after him, Rachel,” she said ; “ I 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


47 


am confident he has reached the American 
camp, or we should have heard of him ere 
this. He probably fell in with some Quaker 
going that way, I should judge, from what this 
good man tells us. When you return to 
Philadelphia explain my absence to General 
Stirling. Avoid seeing him until late in the 
afternoon, so he can force no information from 
you. Then it will not avail him to send for 
me, as I will be within the rebel lines. Tell 
him kindly, Rachel, that I thought it wisest, 
and give him my most dutiful love.’' 

“ But, my child,” interposed the little 
Quakeress, ‘‘ thou art rash to run into such 
danger. Thou art young, and I say not falsely 
that thou hast the comeliness of the flesh which 
warreth against the spirit. No one will harm 
the boy, and it would be wise that thou return 
with me, would it not ? ” glancing appealingly 
at the miller. 

The joint advice of the two availed nothing. 

And thou hast not yet broken fast save by 
a sup of milk,” pleaded the Quakeress ; ‘‘ thou 
wilt grow faint on the way. Do thou harken, 
Diane, lest thy ungodly self-will lead thee into 
wrong paths.” 

The Lord prospers them as begin the day 
on a full stomach,” said the miller. His jovial 
face beamed with good nature. He pointed to 
a stone cottage back of the mill, well-nigh hid- 
den by fruit trees. ‘‘ Go in and have some- 


48 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


thing with the goodwife. I but just left the 
little ones around the table a-blowing of their 
porridge to cool it. Six sound boys have I 
and a little daughter, who the old mothers say 
is the image o' her father." He shook with 
silent merriment. 

But Mademoiselle de Berny would not con- 
sent to tarry longer, being sorely harried by 
fear lest she should be delayed, her thought 
reverting to the suspicious attitude taken by 
the officer they had encountered. 

Rachel," she said, a smile belying the anx- 
iety in her eyes, ‘‘why dwell you so on the 
bodily pleasures of eating ? Have you no 
shame of your appetite ? Take care," she 
added, shaking her head, and with droll mim- 
icry of the other's voice, “ lest your ungodly 
desires lead you to lust for the flesh-pots of 
Egypt, and you sell your birthright for a mess 
of pottage ! " 

Nodding her head as in solemn prophecy of 
things unspeakably awful, Rachel Mott watched 
her companion fording the stream, her dress 
gathered closely around her slender ankles, 
the light twinkling on the buckles of her 
slippered feet, as she stepped daintily from 
stone to stone with the miller's assistance. 
On the further side of the stream Mademoiselle 
de Berny turned. 

“ Adieu," she cried, waving her hand, “ your 
solemn face does make me merry, Rachel. 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


49 


Faith, I would wager a pair of gloves you 
think me on the road to a warmer world ; 
but fear not, I shall be back in time for the 
ball, and I will wear my butterfly gown. Who 
knows but the tempter may whisper you to 
join in the dance for all your pious garb ? 

‘‘Ah, Diane,” murmured the Quakeress, as 
she awaited the miller’s return to procure the 
flour, “ the heathenish name thy parents gave 
thee suits thee right well, and with good sense 
didst thou choose thy costume for dancing — 
that invention of the devil’s ! Thy frivolous 
French blood makes thee indeed a butterfly ! 
Take heed lest thy pretty wings be singed.” 

As some dove whose fellows have flown 
away, leaving it alone, sunning its gentle 
bosom, so did the little Quakeress seem, seated 
on the bench, with the distressed tears falling 
on the white kerchief which crossed her breast. 
For there was the misery of the thought of 
Mademoiselle de Berny in danger, and there 
remained General Stirling, whose wrath she 
must encounter. 

“ And whilst he would not speak harshly to 
his niece,” she murmured, “ because of her 
French airs and graces, which exercise a most 
ungodly influence, so that her disobedient 
heart is not to be perceived for the glamour 
of her way, yet ’tis known how violent a 
temper and profane a tongue he useth towards 
them that cross him.” 


Chapter IV 

“ T^OUR miles yonder/’ said the miller, 
J/ “ following the road straight, ye pass 
the Red Lion Tavern, which is at a 
cross-roads, and there ye take the path to your 
left. Or ye can cut across country through the 
forest, which is a lonesome way, but makes 
better time. Fll show ye another bit if ye go 
that way, though ’tis scarce to my liking to 
see ye go alone in these rough times. Yet ye 
tell o’ the poor lad’s blindness, and I marvel 
not that ye are fearsome for him.” He swung 
open the gate of the fence, which railed in a 
pasture from the road, flapping his white apron 
to drive away the curious cows. A footpath 
led across this meadow to a dense woods. 
Mademoiselle de Berny walked swiftly, her 
companion pufflng and blowing as he kept 
pace with her. The flour which had settled 
upon his blue blouse and his hair rose with 
every step, making in the sunlight a radiant 
nimbus around his red face and portly figure. 
As he was about to leave her on the border of 
the forest, after pointing out the path. Mad- 
emoiselle de Berny put a tiny blue ring she 
had been wearing in his broad palm. ‘‘Take 
that to your little daughter,” she said, “ and 
so 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


51 


when I return, either to-night or to-morrow 
morning, I shall partake of some porridge with 
her.” 

The miller stood a moment watching her. 
Beneath the glimmer of the green trees her 
figure, clad in the long cloak and pointed 
brown hood, had a quaint, unworldly appear- 
ance, as of a nun, whose convent walls were 
made by the close forest. But as she turned 
to wave a last adieu to him, this fancy was 
dispelled ; for no holy face looked out from 
beneath the pointed hood, but a countenance 
brilliant in color, with mischievous gleaming 
eyes and escaping curls clustering around the 
delicate forehead, and half-concealing the dainty 
pink of the ears. 

“ Good morning, my friend,” she called, 
“ fail not to tell Rachel Mott that with your 
own eyes you saw me fall into the clutches of 
the Evil One ! ” 

Now, though Mademoiselle de Berny walked 
on bravely the road the miller pointed out, her 
steps at last became hesitating. She felt as one 
who has wandered into an enchanted wood. 
Trees arose on all sides, their branches inter- 
lacing gloom of verdure the sun-rays could 
barely penetrate. Branches lay broken on the 
ground. Now and then she stepped over the 
great trunk of some fallen forest king covered 
with fungi and moss. It was still in the cool 
of the morning. The dew lay white as hoar- 


52 Mademoiselle de Berny 

frost on the ground. A red squirrel ran across 
her path. Through a far gap in the forest, 
where the sunshine streamed down broadly, 
there passed in single file a long line of Indians 
with feathered head-dress, their supple bodies 
glistening like copper. She stood still watch- 
ing them stealing away like wood-spirits. Her 
eyes grew wide and dark, seeming to reflect in 
their depth the mysteriousness of the forest. 
There arose the lonely cooing of a dove. It 
seemed to her that the heart of the woods was 
voicing its longing. She thought of a picture 
hanging in the dormitory of a convent she had 
attended — The Enchanted Wood. Again she 
saw the little painted spring, in which the fairies 
bathed, bubbling from the moss. Pleasant had 
it been to imagine herself wandering through 
those elf-like glades on carpets of rarest moss 
underneath the arching of great trees. Ah, 
how this place brought back those fairy-tales — 
all those dreams of her childhood never to be 
realized ! Yet had one dream, that of being in 
such a forest, come to pass. Here was the 
spring and the velvet moss and the gigantic 
trees. But as the morning brightened into day, 
she would fain have turned and fled. For so 
it is with mankind, beauty taking on the color 
of the mood. For though the supreme desire 
be fulfilled, it proves an empty shell, turning 
to ashes and bitterness if those beloved have 
no part in it. 


S3 


Mademoiselle de Berny 

Mademoiselle de Berny's thought drifting to 
the quaint saying that souls were oft-times lone- 
liest in Paradise, felt as if the beauty choked 
her. Beneath her anxiety regarding her brother 
ran an undercurrent of thought of Richard 
Heyward. Crossing the ocean to this far 
country had there not been a sweet and secret 
hope nestling as some hidden singing-bird in 
her breast ? And while he had forgotten that 
brief meeting in far off France, she had remem- 
bered !* She put her hands over her burning 
face. Since his cowardly flight from Philadel- 
phia, branded shamelessly in public opinion as 
a spy, her scorn of his base position and her 
wounded pride that he had left her without a 
word had kept her thought at a tension which 
allowed no play of the emotions. But a great 
rush of sadness now swept away all anger and 
ride, leaving her powerless against the cry of 
er heart for him. Certain gestures — the car- 
riage of his head, the lighting of his face when 
he smiled, the warmth which had come into his 
glance when he looked at her — now became 
torturing remembrances. Within her tender 
heart, beneath all surface anger, there throbbed 
the ever ready pardon for him when he should 
come back to her and be forgiven — not for- 
giveness in the common acceptance of the term, 
but rather the assurance the passionate and gen- 
erous nature would convey to the beloved one 
that what has passed is as naught. She felt 



54 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


the humbleness of the forgiver craving pardon, 
that he should be right rather than the other. 
In the quiet forest there was heard the sound 
of weeping. Mademoiselle de Berny seated on 
the trunk of a tree, her head bowed upon her 
knees, was sobbing as if her heart would break. 
Love she felt had come to her, not as a flame 
to purify even as it burned, nor yet a sharp 
pain which might chasten, never an inspiration, 
but hopeless and a grievous hurt, a sore, slight 
perhaps, but unhealing, throbbing at the source 
of being, lying deeper than any trouble she had 
ever known. With a pang of self-reproach she 
remembered Armand and rising, continued her 
way, walking with conscience-stricken haste to 
make up for lost time. In her hurry she for- 
got the miller’s direction to be followed at the 
cross-roads some distance before the Red Lion 
Tavern would be reached, and took the wrong 
path. This way wound circuitously through 
the forest so that it was nearly noon before she 
passed from the woods into the open country. 
The highway lay white and dusty before her, 
the sun beating down hotly. She had not gone 
far when she turned, startled at hearing herself 
greeted by name in the familiar Quaker tongue. 
Her gaze rested upon a tall, corpulent man, 
whom she recognized as a secret agent of 
Lord Howe’s. He belonged to a society of 
Friends, who, while loyal to the king, were pas- 
sive as far as any public observation might de- 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


55 


termine. Through General Stirling she had 
learned of this man’s position, he being stationed 
at one of the city entrances to point out obnox- 
ious persons coming in from the country. 
Having from the first an instinctive dislike of 
him, she acknowledged his greeting coldly and 
continued her way. 

“ Didst thou come alone, friend? ” asked the 
Quaker, falling into step at her side. His 
unctious voice grated on her. 

“You have eyes,” she answered shortly. 
She remembered passing the entrance where 
he was stationed several times when she had 
been riding in the country with Armand. In- 
variably had the lad drawn his horse up to the 
man’s side, engaging in a little chat with him 
while she had waited, taking no heed of the con- 
versation, although indulgent of her brother’s 
fancy. 

The Quaker kept beside her. Both were 
silent. 

Suddenly Mademoiselle de Berny, grown 
suspicious and irritated at the man’s insistence, 
turned and faced him. “ Monsieur,” she said, 
standing still, “what is it you desire of me?” 
Recalling the miller’s statement that her brother 
had been met by a Quaker, her suspicion found 
vent before he could reply. “Where is my 
brother ? You were seen with him yesterday.” 

“ Hast thou missed him ? ” he asked urbanely. 

“ You know well I have,” she retorted hotly. 


56 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


‘‘Where should I have seen thy brother?'' 
he asked. 

His large and flabby face with its infantile 
pinkness of skin was unchangeably bland. As 
she met the cunning gaze of his small eyes, the 
white lashes blinking continuously behind the 
clumsy spectacles he wore, her dislike flamed 
into anger. 

“You wretched Quaker!" she cried; “you 
wretched hypocrite ! If you know where my 
brother is, and refuse to tell me, I swear you 
shall be whipped out of town, if not strung up 
by the thumbs ! " 

He gave her a malevolent gaze but remained 
silent. 

She pointed down the road back of her. 
“ Go," she cried, “ go, lest you repent it when 
I return to Philadelphia. But, hark ye. Mon- 
sieur, and you have lied to me, your back shall 
smart for it." 

She moved on swiftly. When she had gone 
some distance she glanced back and saw that he 
was standing still watching her. She turned 
and went on, fighting a nervous fear which 
threatened to take possession of her. At last 
where the road made a slight curve she seated 
herself on the trunk of a fallen tree and waited. 
But a little while had elapsed ere she saw from 
her concealed position the Quaker peering down 
the road, the light glancing on his spectacles as 
he came stealthily towards her. A few moments 


57 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


ago her heart had beaten hard with fear. But 
as the danger one flees is greater than when one 
turns and faces it, so now her fright faded. And 
so like some great gray cat creeping timorously 
did the fellow seem, that she was seized with a 
desire well-nigh irresistible to laugh. 

“ Many a true word is spoken in jest,” she 
murmured, shaking her pretty head in keen 
amusement ; “ but little did I think, Rachel 
Mott, when I sent you word by the miller 
that I was fallen into the clutches of the Evil 
One, that he should prove of your sect and wear 
your colors ! ” 

She allowed the Quaker to pass a little way 
by her before she made known her presence. 

Methinks you mistook me. Friend Broad- 
brim,” she called after him cheerily; ‘^did I not 
say the other direction.^” illustrating her sen- 
tence by an airy wave of her hand. 

She sat laughing at his discomfiture while he 
strove to maintain his habitual meekness of 
expression. Where he stood the sides of the 
road diverged widely, and in the centre of the 
broad space thus made stood an ancient and 
gnarled apple tree with low spreading branches. 
It was late in blossoming, and showed but 
scant promise of fruit in its tight red buds, as 
if its sap partook of the quality of the frozen 
and reluctant blood of old age. One branch 
stretched out across the road like a menacing 
arm, held over the Quaker and the young girl. 


58 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


Some curious fancy communicated itself to 
Mademoiselle de Berny, and she moved along 
the log on which she was seated, out from the 
shade into the sunlight. 

Monsieur,” she said, pointing upwards, 
“ that branch hangs like a gallows limb above 
you.” 

He shook his forefinger menacingly at her. 
‘‘ The Lord rebuketh them who suspect others 
of evil. I, beholding thee alone, on a road 
frequented by ungodly men, did feel that 
the Lord appointed me a shepherd for one 
of his lambs and so did follow thee, receiving 
thy ill-will with meekness, for is it not bidden 
us that if we are smitten on one cheek to turn 
the other ?” 

“ There are wolves as well as shepherds to 
be met with,” she said ; and the silly lamb 
must look well else he might be deceived by 
the wolf in sheep’s clothing — ” 

‘‘ Snares and pitfalls are before the feet of 
the ungodly,” he interrupted. 

“ ’Twere right good wisdom then that you 
save your soul and follow not in my path,” she 
retorted. “ I warned you once. Monsieur. 
Now you had better turn and go, unless you 
can tell me aught of my brother.” 

“ ’Twas but for a short while that I saw 
him,” he admitted sullenly. 

“ Oh,” she cried eagerly with an imploring 
gesture, “ you saw him ? ” 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


59 


‘‘Yea, he was on his way to the rebels’ 
camp, whither he had a friend he told me,” 
answered the Quaker. 

“ Did he reach there ? ” she asked. 

“ Nay, I cannot answer thy every question. 
Can I tell thee how every blade of grass bends,” 
he answered, “ how should I know thy brother’s 
every step, whether he falleth into the river or 
reacheth the rebels safely P ” 

“ Monsieur,” said the girl sternly, “ I like 
not your manner. It savors of an impertinence 
for which I have no liking. Be careful lest 
you vex me too far, and your thumbs get 
stretched for it. Have you aught to eat with 
you ? ” 

Sullenly he drew from his pocket some bread 
and cheese and laid it in her lap. 

“ I would not be of too great fastidiousness,” 
she said, undoing the paper in which the food 
was wrapped, and turning the bread over 
lightly with one finger; “yet, by my faith. 
Friend Broadbrim, my conscience is more 
dainty than my stomach and cannot digest this 
unblest bread. Yet will I say grace before 
meat.” 

“Thou idolatrous Papist woman,” cried the 
Quaker, recoiling as she made the sign of the 
cross. 

Mademoiselle de Berny, beginning to eat the 
bread and cheese with relish, paused to laugh 
merrily as he turned and walked back in the 


6o 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


direction from which he had come. Hasten/' 
she called, hasten, good friend Broadbrim, 
meek servant of the Lord, hasten as if the 
devil were at thy heels ! ” 

He paused a moment and looked back, see- 
ing her not only as she appeared then, but with 
a vision in his mind of her disdainful airs in 
Philadelphia. He recalled the crimson cloak 
she had been in the habit of wearing, and which 
whenever he had seen it was like unto a banner 
of the Romish church flaunting in the Quaker 
city. He shook his finger, at her, his hand 
trembling in his wrath. 

^‘Yea, so would I quicken my steps, thou 
idle Papist Frenchwoman," he spoke sourly, 
for doth not the Good Book bid us flee the 
Scarlet Woman ? " 

Mademoiselle de Berny finished her lunch- 
eon, putting what remained of the bread in 
her pocket in case of further need. Her 
countenance still showed traces of her sobbing 
in the forest, but her nature, spontaneously 
hopeful and happy, reasserted itself in strong 
reaction of past grief. 

For several miles she pressed on resolutely. 
But the Quaker’s words had left their sting in 
her heart, and at last she no longer felt confi- 
dent that Armand had reached Valley Forge 
safely. Her anxiety returned, increased ten- 
fold. Where she passed a thick copse, she 
would stop, and parting the branches look 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


6i 


fearfully in, her intense nervousness filling her 
with dread lest she should see his dead body. 
Often pausing, she would call his name over 
and over again. But in reply there was but 
the echo of her anguished voice. Utterly ex- 
hausted at last, she seated herself on the 
ground beneath a tree at some distance off 
the road. She rested her head against the 
trunk, her eyes closing wearily. The mur- 
mur of the river sounded dreamily near. Now, 
it was Armand’s voice, his dear voice beseech- 
ing her not to be troubled. Her tired frame 
relaxed, her lids quivering slightly. She drew 
a long, sighing breath, her head drooping on 
her breast. She was asleep. Had the party 
of Queen’s Rangers, headed by General Stir- 
ling and the officer she had encountered that 
morning, but glanced aside at that particular 
point as they galloped down the road, they 
would have discovered the object of their 
search. But they passed, and returned within 
an hour, unconscious as she of their nearness. 

It was well on in the afternoon when Mad- 
emoiselle de Berny awakened, startled as she 
glanced at the sun which hung low in the west 
to see how long she had slept. She arose 
dazedly in her half-roused consciousness, lean- 
ing against the tree with one hand, her brows 
drawn together frowningly, as she strove to 
collect her faculties. As she stood thus, a 
party of light horse swung around a turn of 


62 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


the road — a flash of blue amidst a cloud of 
dust. From her position she but caught 
a glimpse of them, and she hastened forward 
to intercept the riders, reaching the road at a 
point but slightly in advance of the horsemen, 
whose uniforms of buff and blue proved them 
to be of the Continental Army. The officer, 
a young fellow of about twenty, drew up his 
horse to inquire of the young girl if she had 
passed a party of British cavalry, who had 
been reported to have approached the Ameri- 
can line that afternoon. His accent, although 
he spoke in English, proclaimed him a French- 
man. In removing his cocked hat to address 
her, he revealed a high receding forehead, from 
which the red hair was brushed back and 
braided in a long queue, looped up, and tied 
with a ribbon. His sharp, bright face, attrac- 
tive despite its insignificant features and pro- 
truding hazel eyes, no less than his French 
accent in her ears, homesick for the sound of 
her native language, inspired confidence. In 
another moment she was relating rapidly to him 
in French, with many excitable gestures, her 
brother’s disappearance, her subsequent follow- 
ing him, that the British seen had doubtless 
been a searching party for her. To her great 
relief she learned that her brother had reached 
the American encampment safely in the after- 
noon of the preceding day. 

“We will take you to him,” said the officer. 









X 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


63 


He dismounted, standing a moment and look- 
ing with evident hesitation down the road. 
“ I doubt if it be worth while to follow those 
fellows further,” he said, turning. “ If you. 
Mademoiselle,” smiling, ‘^were the object of 
that expedition which ended in failure, my 
heart stirs to something of sympathy for my 
foe.” He ordered one of his men to dismount, 
remove his horse’s saddle, and strap on a folded 
blanket in its stead. He then assisted her to 
mount. The soldier swung himself on a com- 
rade’s horse back of the rider, seated sideways as 
a woman and carrying the discarded saddle. 
The road following the river wound through so 
dense a forest that they seemed to be riding 
in a green twilight. So low hung the branches 
that they bowed their heads continually. 

Mademoiselle de Berny’s face regained color 
and brightness, as a flower after rain, albeit she 
was so wearied she could scarcely keep her 
seat on the horse. She and the young officer 
rode abreast in front of the men. The two 
chatted gayly in their native language. The 
young man’s personality expressed the intense 
organism and energy accorded the possessor 
of like fiery hue of hair. For love of liberty, 
he told his companion, he left his bride, the 
gayety of the < court; ay, incurred the dis- 
pleasure of Louis, to go to America there to 
enter the Continental Army as a volunteer, 
although he had since been honored by pro- 


64 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


motion to the rank of Major General. He was 
the Marquis de La Fayette. And the name of 
Mademoiselle ^ De Berny ? Ah, yes, he had 
acquaintance with her uncle the Abbe de Berny. 
He remembered that he had been one of the 
few to side with His Majesty, and to pro- 
test against the recognition of America’s need. 

But we are younger. Mademoiselle,” con- 
tinued the young man ; your uncle belong- 
ing to the old school of our nobility cannot 
change easily those ideas in which he has been 
born and bred. Yet, thank God, the younger 
blood has triumphed, and doubtless my news 
that Louis has at last acknowledged the inde- 
pendence of the colonies is old to your ears. 
’Twas less than a month ago that the winds 
of heaven bore La Sensible to Falmouth har- 
bor, and a herald from our fair country stepped 
upon the land to proclaim the alliance.” 

‘‘An imposing alliance,” said Mademoiselle 
de Berny, “making France’s policy an inter- 
national jest ! Louis signing a treaty with a 
handful of a brother-monarch’s subjects in 
insurrection ! ” 

“This is no insurrection. Mademoiselle,” 
answered her companion with deep gravity, 
“ but a revolution, the sound of whose cannon 
will reverberate in all Europe, where arbitrary 
power weighs heavily on the people. The 
liberty for which we are fighting inspires me 
with an ardent enthusiasm. Ah, you smile. 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


6s 


Mademoiselle ! Are you unfriendly to the 
Colonies? And you a Frenchwoman?” he 
added in deep and visibly hurt reproach. 
‘‘Where is your love of liberty?” 

She shrugged her shoulders daintily, laugh- 
ing. “ I am not a man,” she said airily ; “ can 
I go to war ? Why should I concern myself 
with these quarrelling English ? Because a 
handful of Americans are in rebellion against 
their king, should I concern myself, or weep, 
perforce, that I, a woman, may not go to war ? ” 

“ I know one woman,” he responded with a 
marked sternness, seeming strange to his youth 
and gentle manner, “ who is, perhaps, even 
younger than you. But her love of liberty 
made her give her husband to this revolution, 
putting in jeopardy that life dearer to her than 
her own. Ah, but women do go to war! In 
their husbands’ and lovers’ hearts the thought 
of them abides as one with freedom. She of 
whom I speak is a Frenchwoman. Were she 
to hear you, her sister, express such sentiment 
her cheek would redden with shame.” 

His companion made no reply. Silently 
they rode along. La Fayette’s eyes saw not 
the clayey road, but instead the soft green 
fields of sunny France, the vineyards sloping 
to the river, the orchard blowing sweet in 
blossom, the old gray wall of a chateau against 
the blue sky. And she was there in that be- 
loved country, her constant thought a prayer 


66 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


for him. Could the young wife whose own 
fair hands had buckled on his sword, bidding 
his courage prove worthy of her love, have 
seen him at that moment, doubtless he would 
have appeared to her more a homesick boy 
than a young General honored for his valor. 

The party halted at the King of Prussia Tav- 
ern, an inn famous for its good cheer. Its sign 
emblazoned by the figure of a warrior on horse- 
back, painted by Gilbert Stuart, hung creaking 
in the breeze. 

Mademoiselle,” said La Fayette, his sensi- 
tive face once more serene, ‘‘ I can permit you 
to go no further without partaking of some re- 
freshment.” He lifted her from the horse and 
accompanied her inside. 

The inn was typical of those of the period. 
Along the front ran a verandah. At one end 
was a bench with shining basins and homespun 
towels hanging above on the lattice-work to dry, 
for when a traveller arose in the morning he 
washed his face not in his room but on the 
piazza. At La Fayette's command, the inn- 
keeper, an old pipe-smoking German, carried 
ale to the soldiers waiting outside. 

“We have none such quaint inns in France, 
Marquis,” smiled the young girl, noting the 
sanded floor, the great tub of water wherein 
melons and cucumbers, pitchers of milk and 
bottles of wine were set to cool. A rosy coun- 
try-maid, returning from the spring, paused to 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


67 


jest with the soldiers. One stalwart fellow, he 
who had resigned his horse to Mademoiselle de 
Berny’s service, leant over to drink from the 
pitcher held up by a pair of round arms, wet 
and glowing from the spring water. In his 
haste to snatch a kiss after drinking, the soldier 
tipped the pitcher over, to his own confusion 
and the guffaws of his comrades, while the 
drenched damsel made her way once more to 
the spring. 

Mademoiselle de Berny, sipping a cup of 
coffee, laughed as she witnessed the scene 
through the open door. The soldiers were a 
hardy set of men, unshaven and shabbily 
clothed. With the exception of the Marquis 
de La Fayette, she noticed that none of the 
party possessed complete uniforms. 

‘^Womanlike you are criticising our dress. 
Mademoiselle,” said her companion, divining 
her thought. “True, we are in a luckless 
plight. ’Tis a joke amongst the officers that 
when one is invited to dine at headquarters, he 
must borrow his uniform — a hat from this man, 
a coat and a clean shirt from that, a decent pair 
of boots from another. But yesterday an 
officer appeared au grande parole^ attired in a 
blanket, like an Indian chief,” he added, laugh- 
ing heartily and with a boyish infectiousness. 
“ But let us hasten, if you have finished. I 
fear a storm is rising.” 

The sun was setting, dimly obscured by an 


68 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


ominous vapor through which it shone like a 
ball of fire. Heavy clouds were forming slowly 
at the horizon, casting great purple shadows on 
the green meadows. Not a leaf moved. The 
songs of birds were hushed. In one corner of 
a field some cattle had drawn closely together, 
standing with lowered heads. The men also 
became silent, as sharing the oppression of 
nature before a storm. 

Mademoiselle de Berny and General La Fay- 
ette exchanged no words, each absorbed in 
thought. 

In the young girl's eyes was an expression 
at once shy and defiant, as if she would fain 
have turned and gone the other way despite 
her desire to see her brother. 


Chapter V 

D escending a long, steep hiii they 

came suddenly upon Valley Forge. 
Never had Mademoiselle de Berny 
looked upon so desolate a scene. With the 
fading of day, a raw and chilly breeze sprang 
up. It rose cold and damp from the river 
and blew sharp in their faces — a cheerless 
greeting. Between them and the encampment 
the Schuylkill flowed, gray and turbulent, be- 
neath the rising storm. In the angle formed 
by it and a little creek emptying into it from 
the north lay a village, consisting of row upon 
row of log huts. A small stone house near 
the creek was pointed out to Mademoiselle by 
the Marquis de La Fayette as the headquarters 
of the army. Beyond the encampment, far as 
the eye could reach, stretched a great barren 
plain, sloping to a far hill-line. The ford, 
which was very wide, was difficult in passing, 
the river running so high that the water was 
well above the horses' knees. In the swift 
current on the unsteady stones at the bottom, 
the animals’ feet slipped constantly. La Fay- 
ette, guiding .his own horse, held firmly with 
his other hand Mademoiselle de Berny’s bridle. 
As the little party reached the other side, there 

69 


70 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


was sounded the muffled yet shrill tones of the 
tattoo for evening prayer. 

“ The service will be short/' said La Fayette, 
“ and I think we will find it pleasanter to wait 
until it is over than to attempt to make our 
way through the ranks now. But let us move 
nearer." 

Never in her bright life had the young girl 
imagined there existed such pale, desolate, and 
ragged men as soldiers issued from the huts, 
obeying the summons of the tattoo. The 
chaplain mounted the stump, a meagre, bowed 
figure in black, with thin white hair. Near 
him was stationed a body of officers. The 
entire army had an air of silent expectation. 
Suddenly her roving glance was attracted toward 
a man wrapped in a blue military cape advanc- 
ing through the soldiers, who parted with pro- 
found reverence. The newcomer towered head 
and shoulders above the majority. As he 
drew nearer, walking swiftly, bearing himself 
with a dignity which possessed something of 
an austere grandeur, she saw his countenance 
plainly. He removed his hat as the chaplain 
gave the opening prayer, revealing a dome- 
like head, the light b'rown hair, heavily sprin- 
kled with gray, tied with a black ribbon. The 
face was massively cut and of unusual pallor, 
the nose prominent, the mouth compressed, 
the underlip and chin slightly protruding. 
His glance dwelt momentarily on the young 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


71 


girl, but she felt he had not even observed her 
as she met the gaze of those shadowed eyes, 
which seemed to look inward rather than afar. 

The chaplain, raising his hand, — the trem- 
bling and wrinkled hand of an old man, — an- 
nounced the text : They that take the sword 
shall perish by the sword.'' 

As a bell, though cracked, tolls none the 
less surely for death, so the text uttered in the 
high, quavering voice of old age, shrill above 
the vague yet vast murmur of the crowd, 
seemed like an unalterable proclamation of 
fate. As the cracked bell, whose solemn mes- 
sage none might gainsay, so the feeble penetrat- 
ing voice uttered divine justice : ‘‘ An eye for an 
eye, a tooth for a tooth ! " As one would be 
deaf to the death-knell, so with a like impulse 
did Mademoiselle de Berny look away shud- 
deringly from the speaker. Vainly her glance 
swept the masses for her brother. Yet, re- 
gardless of her anxiety, she was half-fearful 
lest she should see Richard Heyward. But 
she saw no familiar face among these gaunt- 
bearded men, sunken cheeked and hollow 
eyed. On some of the ragged coats were 
pinned heart-shaped pieces of red flannel. 
These bits of cloth were worn on the left 
breast. This novel detail of the scene excited 
Mademoiselle de Berny's curiosity, so that she 
whispered to her companion. He answered 
in a low tone — for the service still continued 


72 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


— that it was a decoration conferred by Gen- 
eral Washington on those soldiers who dis- 
tinguished themselves by bravery, privileging 
the wearer to pass the camp guards as if he 
were a commissioned officer. 

“Ah, Mademoiselle,” said the young French- 
man sadly, “ there is a pathos in the simple 
decoration which rends my heart, so humble 
are the favors His Excellency can bestow. 
With what repressed emotion have I seen him 
pin on these badges ! His great and generous 
spirit is offended at the mean, poor token.” 

In the ranks nearest to the little party stood 
a man whose tattered clothing failed to detract 
from the dignity of his magnificent physique. 
Suddenly he turned and Mademoiselle de 
Berny saw the red. badge on his breast. But 
no intelligence was in his face, and she saw 
that he was quite mad. Fascinated she stared 
long at him, unmindful of the wild and mourn- 
ful gaze he in his turn bestowed upon her, 
until at last she became conscious of it, and 
looked away. This was what war meant, this 

— to suffer, to bear nakedness, hunger, and 
cold, to leave wife and child, to go mad, per- 
haps, beneath the strain — wearing as insignia 
for valor no jewelled cross nor glittering star, 
but a rude and ragged piece of cloth indicative 
of the wearer’s bravery, and the poverty of that 
country for which he fought. All thought 
of self, even her desire to see her brother. 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


73 


faded as the mournfulness of the scene was 
impressed upon her bright nature. On her 
were cast the frequent glances of men, little 
accustomed to the sight of a young and beauti- 
ful woman. One last shaft of light from the 
departing day pierced the heavy clouds, and 
fell upon her singling out her figure in the 
multitude, and lighting up her appalled and 
wondering face from which the hood of her 
cloak had fallen back. 

At the conclusion of the service, the officer 
whom she had noticed came forward and 
greeted her kindly. It was His Excellency, 
General Washington. He listened attentively 
to her explanation of her appearance at Valley 
Forge. 

It will not be possible, considering certain 
movements now on foot, for me to return you 
and your brother at once to Philadelphia,’' he 
said, “ without exposing somewhat of my own 
plans and with probable inconvenience, even 
danger to you both on the road. But within a 
few days I am confident I shall be able to do 
so.” In his expression appeared a gleam of 
that quiet humor, which seldom seen in his 
face was never forgotten by those who once 
observed it. My child,” he continued, 
any papers found upon your brother’s person 
were delivered to me, and great was my amaze- 
ment to find that the letter your brother so 
anxiously desired to return to Major Heyward 


74 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


proved no treasonable communication, but 
seemed rather to investigate a field of which I 
am ignorant, and which is presided over by a 
much smaller but world-powerful general, who 
conquers all hearts. My child,” he added 
smilingly and removing his hat with a profound 
bow, ‘‘ I beg your pardon inasmuch as I read 
a letter intended for your eyes only, and think- 
ing that it would reach you most safely through 
the writer, to him did I return your rightful 
property.” 

But Mademoiselle de Berny made no reply. 
The silken lashes of her down-cast eyes lay 
upon her burning cheeks. When at last she 
looked up His Excellency had departed, and 
she caught a glimpse of his tall figure moving 
rapidly through the ranks. She and the 
Marquis de La Fayfette and his orderly were 
isolated figures. The cavalry which had ac- 
companied the young Frenchman on the after- 
noon’s expedition had been dismissed by him, 
and he now but waited until the troops should 
have dispersed for supper before escorting his 
fair country-woman to headquarters, where she 
would be welcomed by the wife of His Excel- 
lency, who was then in camp. 

“ Monsieur,” said the young girl, ‘‘ I have 
looked in all directions for my brother, but I 
fail to see him.” 

But as she spoke she saw him emerge from 
a group of soldiers some distance away. He 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


75 


walked slowly in her direction, which was 
opposite to that in which the encampment lay. 
She would have spurred her horse to go to 
meet him, or have dismounted and hastened 
forward on foot, had not some intangible and 
jarring impression made by his strange envi- 
ronment communicated itself to her so that the 
warmth rising in her at their prospective greet- 
ing was suddenly chilled, and the eager words 
died on her lips as she sat motionless watching 
him approach her. At his side was the crazed 
soldier she had observed some moments since, 
and who had disappeared after a while from her 
view. Beside his stalwart figure, Armand with 
his slenderness and length of limb had a fawn- 
like grace. The lad sauntered easily at his 
companion's side, one hand resting on the hilt 
of his father's sword, the other on the head 
of the Great Dane. His fair head was un- 
covered and turned toward the soldier with 
whom he was talking. The impression which 
the first glimpse of her brother had given 
Mademoiselle de Berny had caused her to feel 
what seemed merely a physical chill, but now 
as he drew nearer with his strange companion, 
who nodded constantly with a foolish smile to 
what was said, she put her hands against her 
breast as if the cold had struck down to her 
heart. Even La Fayette was unconsciously 
made silent, and awaited developments curi- 
ously. The long grass at the feet of the three. 


76 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


the boy and soldier and hound walking abreast, 
rippled like green waves in the breeze. Where 
were they going at this hour, with a storm ris- 
ing ? Surely the boy, blind though he was, 
knew where the encampment lay by the voices 
of the men, the brisk stir and bustle of sound 
as they prepared supper. The huts were 
shrouded in gloom. But here and there newly 
made fires leaped up redly. Only on the 
green meadow sloping to the river the light of 
day still lingered, and brought out the three 
figures with a soft brilliancy. Behind and 
above the huts the sky was black, but in the 
east still remained a patch of blue. Suddenly 
Armand flung back his head and laughed; the 
sweet tones of his mirth reverberated faintly. 
He thrust his arm through his companion's in 
close comradeship. 

Monsieur,” cried Mademoiselle de Berny 
sharply to La Fayette, “ that man is mad ! He 
is mad, and do you see — my brother does not 
know it! ” 

Recognizing her voice, the Great Dane raised 
its head barking excitedly. It bounded to her 
side, leaped upon her, lapping her hands, then 
left her and ran back to his master, then again 
to her. The boy put out his hands grop- 
ingly. What is it ? ” he kept repeating. He 
stood still turning his head from side to side 
and with extended hands. As if some spell 
enjoining silence had been broken Mademoi- 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


77 


selle de Berny called to him. Her companion, 
divining her desire to go to him, dismounted 
and assisted her to the ground, flinging the 
reins to his orderly. 

“ See, Mademoiselle,’’ he said, keeping at 
her side, “your brother knew your voice. He 
calls you.” 

But she, breaking into a little run in her 
haste, did not reply. Another moment and 
her arms were around her brother and she was 
sobbing and laughing and uttering soft inarticu- 
late sounds of endearment. “ Armand,” she 
said at last, “ why did you go without telling 
me ^ ” 

“ Because I wished to,” he answered crossly, 
striving to release himself from her embrace. 

As she looked at him in astonishment, she 
saw there were tears of vexation in his eyes. 

“ Why did you come after me ? ” he said ; 
“ I am no baby. I can take care of myself. 
I will not be put in leading-strings. Look, 
what will these soldiers think to see me with a 
woman at my heels, as a child with its nurse? ” 
He made a desperate, impassionated gesture 
and burst into enraged weeping. “ I will not 
have you forever watching and following me, 
Diane. My father did as he pleased, and I 
will do so, too, or I will kill myself! I will kill 
myself! ” 

Mademoiselle de Berny’s and La Fayette’s 
gaze met in sympathy. In the mind of each 


78 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


was the same thought as the angry sobbing of 
the lad smote their ears. Alas, that he should 
be so defiant, who was indeed so very helpless ; 
who rebelled at protection against the world, at 
whose mercy he would be were none to guard 
him ; who sought to command whereas he was 
fated to inspire but pity ! 

‘‘ Armand,'' said his sister very gently as she 
comprehended his wounded pride, his vexation 
and mortification, “ I am sorry. I will do 
whatever you wish, dear, and I will never fol- 
low you again if it vexes you. Shall I leave 
you and return to Philadelphia ? ” 

He raised his head then, his face clear- 
ing and showing some gratification but more 
obstinacy. 

‘‘Yes, you must go back, Diane,” he said 
importantly. “Then when I return — ” 

The Marquis de La Fayette interrupted him 
with some impatience, “ Monsieur,” he said, 
“ Mademoiselle, your sister, has been refused 
permission by His Excellency to leave Valley 
Forge for several days, owing to certain pro- 
spective movements.” 

“Very well,” said the boy easily. He was 
entirely pacified by his sister’s gentleness. 
“ But you must not tell any one that you 
came after me, Diane.” 

He shook off* the hand of the insane soldier 
who had drawn near and touched his shoulder, 
seeking to attract his attention. “ Go home. 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


79 


fellow,” he said, pointing toward the encamp- 
ment, go home at once.” The man compre- 
hended the words and gesture and moved off 
quickly. 

Great drops of rain were falling. Hurriedly 
the young Frenchman assisted Mademoiselle 
de Berny upon her horse and mounted his own 
steed. Young Stirling swung himself up be- 
hind La Fayette. The three reached head- 
quarters just as the storm commenced in good 
earnest. It proved one of those violent and 
electrical tempests which occur in the spring of 
the year. 

But within the log cabin which General 
Washington, owing to the smallness of the 
house, had had built for a dining-room and 
which adjoined the main building, there was 
light and warmth, although in one corner of 
the ceiling the rain forced an ingress and dripped 
continuously. It was an oblong room with 
lowering rafters, the cracks in the log walls 
plastered with clay. Candles shone at intervals 
down the table, which was of such length as to 
necessitate being placed diagonally across the 
floor. A fire burned merrily on the hearth, 
casting grotesque shadows and reflecting redly 
upon those seated near by. In the wavering 
light the grim poverty of the room was strik- 
ingly manifested, and the faces surrounding the 
board acquired a mysterious mellowness as the 
faces of an old painting. 


8o 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


The food was meagre, the two tin dishes of 
greens being supplemented by a hot and sub- 
stantial pie of wild pigeons, flocks of which 
passed over the encampment in vast numbers, 
flying so near the ground as to be killed with 
clubs and poles. Massive silver goblets, such 
as were used by the Marshals of France, re- 
flected the gleaming of the candles. Seated 
' next to Mademoiselle de Berny was her brother, 
with whom since their meeting she had had no 
further opportunity to converse. From time 
to time her gaze rested anxiously upon him. 
H is soft hair was ill cared for, his ruffled shirt 
was limp and spattered with mud. Between 
their chairs crouched the Great Dane. Now 
and then the lad fed the dog a bit of food, but 
she noted that he himself ate little. 

At the head of the table His Excellency's 
wife, a portly, middle-aged woman, attired in a 
russet gown with cap and kerchief of white 
muslin, exercised a motherly supervision over 
this military family. Beside her plate lay a 
half-knit sock and a ball of gray yarn. Of 
one officer she made inquiry regarding the price 
of eggs and butter. 

Mademoiselle de Berny, glancing at her time- 
piece bearing on its back a miniature of Marie 
Antoinette, smiled. So this was Lady Wash- 
ington — this good, unpretentious country- 
woman. Ah, had not she seen at the Little 
Trianon a queen enact the role of country- 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


8i 


woman, a royal dairy maid, a coquetry with labor ! 
She recalled the charming and artificial garden 
with its conventional designs, its flower-bor- 
dered walks, the tiny lake with its swans. She 
saw again L'Austrichine with her bright blue 
eyes, her powdered hair dressed with plumes, 
with patches of black plaster to emphasize the 
fairness of her skin. The sparkling necklace 
around the slim neck seemed to detach the 
queenly head from the undignified figure in 
shepherdess costume with a milking-stool under 
one arm and with bits of butter and flour cling- 
ing to the royal fingers. Ah, the glamour of 
those days when a shepherd’s crook was a 
sceptre, when a gay court betook itself to the 
country to churn butter as a jest, to skim milk 
as a diversion, to drive the cows to pasture as 
the cream of pleasure ! She turned as her 
neighbor, an elderly officer, Baron Von Steuben, 
on whose broad breast glittered innumerable 
medals won in the Prussian Army, addressed 
her, deploring her lack of appetite and urging 
another dish upon her. He had been devoting 
himself to her with unceasing attention, putting 
upon her plate the choicest bits of pigeon. 

I fear my plates which Vv^ere once of tin. 
Mademoiselle de Berny,” said General Wash- 
ington, joining in the conversation, are now 
but little better than rusty iron, rather too 
much worn for delicate stomachs ; still they 
may yet serve in the busy and active move- 


82 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


merits of the campaign. To-morrow, I promise 
you, you shall be served by something better 
than this present fare. I have some droves of 
fat cattle coming from New England which 
should have been here to-day, but probably — 

“ I fear your fat cattle will make high living 
for your enemy, your Excellency,” interrupted 
his guest. ‘‘ I was near to being trampled 
upon by them this morning, as they were driven 
by the Queen's Rangers along the road to 
Philadelphia.” 

Washington uttered a bitter exclamation. 
“ Did you see more than one drove. Mad- 
emoiselle ? ” he asked. 

“ But one,” she said ; perhaps fifty or one 
hundred head.” 

His face cleared. There is still a chance 
of saving the rest. I shall send a detachment 
at once to guard the road. Near Frankfort, 
you said ? ” He gave an order to his secre- 
tary, and the officer rose and left the room. 

‘‘You must needs send a goodly number,” 
said Mademoiselle de Berny, remembering the 
shabby Continental troops. “ The British are 
stout fellows, well uniformed and armed — ” 
“Ah, my child,” interrupted Washington, 
laughing, “ but your British don't fight ! The 
ragged fellows are the boys for fighting ! ” 

“ Eh, Mam'selle,” said Baron Von Steuben, 
wagging his jovial head confidentially, “ dey 
fight, dese Americaines, for de love of de lib- 


83 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


erty ; but mein Gott, vot discipline ! I vork 
in de field, but ils ne comprendent pas. Den 
vot say I, mon ami Walker,” he asked, turn- 
ing to his interpreter, a young and handsome 
man, whose glances in Mademoiselle de Berny’s 
direction had been frequent. ‘‘ I vill tell you 
vot I call,” continued the Baron, I halt my 
horse, I wave my hand. Viens, mon ami 
Walker, I call, viens mon bon ami. Sacrebleu 
Gott, verdame de gaucherie of dese badants ! 
Je ne pius plus ! I can curse dem no more ! ” 
Amidst the general laughter and conversa- 
tion following, the dishes and cloth were re- 
moved from the table, with the exception of 
the silver goblets. These were filled with 
Madeira wine by Washington's body servant, 
an old white-haired negro. Plates of hickory 
nuts and apples were passed down the board. 
Lady Washington shook her head in refusal 
of the dessert. Her good and tireless hands 
were busy knitting. She took little part in 
the conversation, listening with a placid smile 
to the sallies of the officers. His Excellency 
was also silent in general, speaking when he 
did so, in a low, almost constrained tone, but 
listening with kindly attention when addressed. 
His enormous hands, whose long and bony 
fingers bespoke that love of detail so strongly 
manifested in his actions, separated the empty 
shells from those containing the kernels, into 
two exact little piles. The other women. 


84 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


following Lady Washington's example, were 
knitting. The young and beautiful wife of 
Alexander Hamilton, Washington's secretary, 
had placed a skein of the coarse yarn on Baron 
Von Steuben's hands, and had drawn her chair 
some distance back, that she might wind the 
ball more readily. Mademoiselle de Berny, 
her hand resting on her brother's shoulder, 
was a stranger to the rude and simple festiv- 
ity. Her mouth quivered with subtle scorn. 
Richard Heyward's position appeared in a bet- 
ter, if in a meaner and poorer, light as well. 
Surely, she thought, her alien glance noting 
the meagre room and shabby fare, his actions 
must have ensued from some mistaken prin- 
ciple, and not from any glory he might win 
allied to such poverty. Where was the pomp 
and ceremony of war ? And his reward ? She 
looked at Lady Washington. Doubtless this 
kind and domestic woman presented him at 
times with those labors of her hands, on which 
she was so busily engaged at present. As she 
turned her eyes away she met those of the 
Marquis de La Fayette. He, guessing the 
tenor of her thought, felt the blood rush to 
his face. Then a very young and impulsive 
man, possessing an ardent love for his own 
country as well as for the new republic he 
espoused, he was intensely mortified by the 
attitude he intuitively felt was taken by his 
country-woman. To his impetuous nature this 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


85 


attitude on her part was as an insult from one 
of his own blood to the General he worshipped 
and to whom he was as a son, and of whose 
hospitality both Mademoiselle de Berny and 
himself were then in acceptance. 

But her amusement deepened as she on her 
part read aright the fiery glance of her awk- 
ward and red-haired young countryman, whose 
high-flown virtue carried him to ridiculous ex- 
tremes. And a corresponding flash of oppo- 
sition came into her expression, as he arose 
and proposed her health not only as an hon- 
ored guest at Valley Forge, but as a repre- 
sentative of France, the alliance of which with 
the United States had been so recently made. 

Young Stirling's voice rang out sharply. 

My father was killed in the King’s Army.” 
He pushed his goblet away, the liquid splash- 
ing over. 

There was a momentary silence. Then 
Baron Von Steuben, whose interpreter had re- 
peated the remark to him, roared with laughter, 
his fat sides shaking with merriment at the 
lad’s spirit. 

“ How falls it that this young girl is your 
sister?” inquired General Washington. 

“ She is my half-sister, your Excellency,” an- 
swered young Stirling, turning his sightless 
gaze upon the speaker. On either cheek 
burned a spot of color. 

The helpless, sensitive face touched his ques- 


86 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


tioner's great heart. Then your sister only 
claims our courtesy as hailing from France,” 
he said ; “ you, young sir, we must account a 
prisoner-of-war.” 

‘^Yes,” said the boy, nodding importantly, 
his face illumined by pride, ‘^yes, your Excel- 
lency, a prisoner-of-war.” 

‘‘ There are still those of my nation, among 
whom I am one, your Excellency,” said Mad- 
emoiselle de Berny, with a quick, defiant glance 
at La Fayette, “who remember that these in- 
surgents who accept our aid to-day stood with 
their present enemy twenty years ago against the 
French regiments in America. And the leader 
of those Provincials, General Washington ? ” 

A gleam of fire lighted Washington’s cold 
countenance. “ You are a nation of good 
fighters. Mademoiselle.” He turned to his 
wife. “ I was a young man then, my dear 
Patsy,” he said, “ a young man with warmer 
blood than I have to-day.” A rare smile was 
on his face as his glance once more rested on 
the young girl — the indulgent smile maturity 
accords its vanished youth. On memory’s 
wall a picture kept its grace somehow, — the 
bud of beauty which had borne no fruit, — the 
unrequited love of his youth. Had he not in 
his disappointment and passion expressed his 
sorrow in a poem ? 

Oh, ye Gods, why should my poor resistless heart 
Stand to oppose thy might and power. 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


87 


At last surrender to Cupid* s feathered dart. 

And now lays bleeding every hour. 

For her that’s pitiless of my griefs and woes 
And will not on me pity take ? 

Truly, he thought, smiling. Providence had in 
all prudence taken the pen from his hand and 
given in place a sword. 

Youth is very distant, my dear Patsy,’' he 
said, sighing; ‘Turther than any stretch of 
years. Mademoiselle,” he added, turning to his 
guest, “join us at least in pledging an honored 
foe which has become a friend. You, a daugh- 
ter of France, we cannot esteem an enemy.” 

The Marquis de La Fayette lifted high his 
silver goblet. “To France,” he cried, his face 
aglow, his eyes dwelling on his fair country- 
woman. “To France we will drink. Madem- 
oiselle, that our country may by the grace of 
God enjoy all liberty which is compatible with 
our monarchy, our position, and our customs.” 

The nobility in Mademoiselle de Berny’s 
character responded to the generous and kindly 
spirit of the little company. Her face softened, 
h^r eyes were full of a shamed yet half-defiant 
pride as her slender fingers tightened around 
the stem of the goblet. 

“ Ah, Messieurs,” she protested, “ you force 
me to become your friend.” 

Amidst the sturdy applause and laughter, 
she and the young Marquis touched their 
glasses to the toast. 


Chapter VI 

T he heavy storm which had arisen that 
evening died down toward nine o’clock 
into a slight but stinging rain, blown by 
a strong wind. At a rude pine table in one of 
the log huts of the encampment a young man 
sat writing by the light of a fire blazing on the 
hearth. With the exception of the table and 
the chair, there was no other furniture save 
two beds opposite each other, made of straw 
on boards and covered by blankets. In the 
clay, plastering the cracks in the log walls, 
were driven several pegs ; on one hung 
an army cape, the scarlet lining of which 
showed where one corner had been tossed 
back. On another peg was a cocked hat, the 
light glinting on the gold cord around its 
crown. The wind blew open the door made 
of split oak slabs. The gust of air whirled 
the sheets of paper off the table in a mad 
skurry around the room. With an impatient 
exclamation the lonely inmate rose, and shoved 
the door to with his foot. The sullen sound 
of the storm vexed him, and he felt unstrung 
and nervous as he collected the scattered 
papers. He rescued a piece from the fire. 
As he blew out the flame of one burning cor- 
88 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


89 


ner, he saw the door again pushed open, this 
time slowly, as by one whose hands were weak 
against the heavy oak. A second more and 
the Great Dane entered, tugging at his chain, 
almost dragging his slender master in. The 
boy was wet with rain, his face glowing from 
buffeting with the storm. 

‘‘ Here is Diane,’' he said, leaning against 
the door to hold it open. 

Mademoiselle de Berny, well-nigh blown in, 
blinded by the sudden light and the loosened 
tresses of her hair flying across her eyes, did 
not at first recognize the owner of the hut 
which she entered. When she did so, she 
retreated to the door. 

‘‘ You did not tell me you were staying with 
Monsieur Heyward, Armand,” she said, and 
her voice rang sharply. 

Baron Von Steuben, who with his inter- 
preter had accompanied the young girl at her 
request to see her brother’s lodgings, followed 
young Stirling and the hound over to the fire. 
He held his hands to the blaze, the steam soon 
rising from his wet garments. He spoke to 
Mademoiselle de Berny, advising her to draw 
nearer the fire. 

But she ignored his solicitous regard. ‘‘ You 
did not tell me, Armand,” she repeated 
stormily. 

“ In a second, Diane,” he called, kneeling at 
his dog’s side and unfastening the chain at- 


90 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


tached to its collar. ‘‘ Be still, you clumsy 
rascal ! ” He attempted to strike the dog, but 
slipped and fell on his side. “What was it 
you said, Diane ? ” he laughed, as the huge 
animal stood over him, its paws on his breast. 
He made a sudden grab at the hound's neck, 
and the two rolled over and over on the floor. 

“ Will you not go nearer the fire ? " asked 
Heyward, addressing Mademoiselle de Berny. 
His face was pale, and he was visibly embar- 
rassed. But she, struggling to control a cor- 
responding embarrassment in herself, neither 
replied to nor looked at him, keeping her gaze 
fixed stormily on her brother as he wrestled 
with his dog. The rain glistened on the fine 
curls which had escaped from beneath her 
hood. Her hands held her cloak together 
with a nervous tightness. Both she and her host 
were instinctively conscious of an effort on the 
part of each other to carry off conventionally, 
in appearance at least, a position so delicate 
and at such a tension as to bear not the slight- 
est touch. The unfortunate misunderstanding 
which had arisen during the period of court- 
ship, and before any confession of their mutual 
love had been made, left them stranded, hope- 
less to meet each other with the frankness of 
friendship, and lacking the assurance of ac- 
knowledged lovers. 

Lieutenant Walker, holding his hat, and 
leaning against the low wall, he himself so tall 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


91 


that his blond head nearly touched the ceiling, 
was looking admiringly at the young girl. 
“ Mademoiselle de Berny is a veritable water- 
witch, Heyward,'* he said ; her spirits rose 
high as the wind itself, till I thought she 
would fly away with it, and she must needs 
walk with her face set to the teeth of the gale. 
Yet I verily believe her cloak is not even 
damp.” 

‘‘ Ah, but it is,” she said quickly, “ and you. 
Monsieur, may hold it to dry, if you please.” 

The young man laughed and laid his hat on 
the table. Then he lifted the garment from her 
shoulders. So large was the cloak that he 
could hold up with ease but one portion at a 
time. He walked toward the fire, limping 
slightly from a wound in his left leg which 
had healed badly. 

‘‘ See here, Baron Von Steuben,” he said, 
“suppose you take a hand in this and lift 
the other side.” 

Heyward's sombre face lighted momentarily 
with amusement as he watched the two men 
blistering before the fire. Then he turned to 
Mademoiselle de Berny. She had drawn nearer 
the door. In the great square shadow flung by 
the cloak her face lost all color. Could he but 
have known it, her next sentence was the cry of 
her wounded heart to him. Her world had 
been suddenly turned around and the founda- 
tion on which she stood was proving unsure. 


92 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


For Mademoiselle de Berny had come to Valley 
Forge with perfect self-assurance, secure in her 
conviction that as surely as she was in the right 
so was Richard Heyward in the wrong, lacking 
not only honor as a soldier, but gallantry as a 
man in leaving her without an explanation. 
But this last conclusion was altered by the fact 
of his having written to her, although the letter 
had miscarried, and, moreover, it needed merely 
a glance at his troubled countenance to convince 
her of his love, and that only the desperate need 
of escaping arrest had made him leave Philadel- 
phia as he did. Now her vantage ground as 
the accuser was swept from beneath her feet. 
She, not looking at him, yet felt that in his 
gaze was wonder at her appearance at Valley 
Forge and some reproach that she had not 
waited to hear from him. Her heart sickened 
with shame and humiliation as she saw herself 
in the position of a woman seeking and not 
contented to be sought. The restless desire to 
see him again, which had, to a certain extent, 
actuated her in going in search of her brother 
and which she had refused to admit, now forced 
itself upon her, refusing longer to be ignored. 
She forgot her brother. Things were reduced 
to one aspect. She had followed Heyward to 
the encampment. She forced herself to look 
at him and saw the perplexed surprise with which 
he regarded her. Her pale face crimsoned. 
The brightness of her eyes was very near to tears. 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


93 


“ So you escaped, Monsieur,’' she said with 
ominous softness ; “ I perceive you are very 
wise. The quality you possess is, I have heard, 
the better part of valor. You have lived, shall 
I say, to fight another day ? ” 

H is face, sensitive and impassioned, quivered. 
She saw that he strove to answer, but the words 
choked him. She glanced at the other occu- 
pants of the hut. Her brother had flung him- 
self on one of the low beds and lay with his 
arms around his dog and with the animal’s paws 
around his neck. The two men now held the 
cloak up by the sleeves, and it looked like some 
dancing headless figure between them. 

“You left Philadelphia unceremoniously,” 
she continued ; “ but your fear as regarded me 
was unnecessary. I told you I should say 
naught. Yet ’twas doubtless natural that your 
opinion of my integrity should be colored by 
your knowledge of yourself.” 

“To my certain knowledge,” he said coldly, 
turning so as to face her directly, “ no one in 
Philadelphia knew of my position there except 
yourself. Still within a few hours after our 
conversation the British were made acquainted 
with the fact.” 

“ Doubtless the walls had ears. Monsieur,” 
she retorted icily. 

He looked away. “ I beg your pardon,” 
he said dully ; “ it was only that — I could not 
understand how they procured information. I 


94 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


did not really believe you had betrayed me. 
I thought of our past friendship. It did not 
seem possible. It was — I — men expect much 
from women — not that they have the right, 
but — 

‘‘Women also have their ideals,’’ she an- 
swered. She raised her voice to address Baron 
Von Steuben in regard to her cloak. 

“In von second, Mam’selle,” he replied, 
turning a red and perspiring face towards her, 
“ but von leettle second more and it vill be dry.” 

“ But one little second more, Mademoiselle,” 
echoed Lieutenant Walker, “ and we shall melt 
away. Your cloak will be no fit. I swear ’tis 
warping with the heat ! ” 

Heyward laughed a mirthless laugh, in which 
his nervousness, strung to a high tension, found 
expression. Glancing at his companion, he be- 
came conscious of the fact that she had been 
standing so near the half-open door that the 
rain beat in upon her shoulders. 

“ Will you not go nearer the fire ? ” he said 
gently, “ the hospitality I can offer you is poor, 
but it is at your service.” He reached behind 
her and closed the door, shutting out the storm. 

She moved slightly further into the interior 
and leant against the wall. The extreme gentle- 
ness of his tone and manner, his harassed and 
pained countenance, his total lack of compre- 
hension that her bitter words were in reality 
wrung from humiliation on her part, caused the 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


95 


tears to rush to her eyes so that she closed 
them, turning her head away against the wall. 
Her nature, naturally generous, was outraged 
by the ungenerous words to which she had given 
utterance. Each taunt she had levelled at him 
had rebounded to accentuate her pain. Hu- 
miliated though she was by the fact of her 
having come to Valley Forge, that feeling was 
slight compared to the mortification she now 
experienced when he showed neither resent- 
ment nor anger, but pain and trouble at her 
scorn. She moved nervously, her lips quiver- 
ing. “ I am so tired,” she said with deepen- 
ing shame at resorting to the plea of physical 
weakness, knowing herself to be employing a 
feminine subterfuge to maintain a lost ground 
by reliance upon the gallantry of the masculine 
nature. ‘‘ I am so tired,” she repeated, I 
would like to go to my room.” 

He saw she was white from exhaustion and 
there were purple shadows under her eyes. 
The vein along her cheek and temple, almost 
imperceptible when she was well, now showed 
plainly. He crossed the room to the fireplace. 
“ Let me have the cloak now, if you please. 
Walker,” he said ; “ Mademoiselle de Berny is 
very tired, and the sooner she gets out of the 
rain and cold the better it will be for her, I am 
sure. Perhaps you will speak to Lady Wash- 
ington and see that she has something hot to 
drink,” he added with anxiety. 


96 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


The young lieutenant refused to relinquish 
the honor of himself wrapping the cloak around 
Mademoiselle. 'Tis as dry as a bone,” he 
said, buttoning it for her and kneeling down to 
fasten the last buttons, secretly amused at the 
jealous glance of his host. I swear I shall mix 
you the best toddy you ever tasted, Mademoi- 
selle,” he said, rising ; “ ’tis out of the Baron’s 
own flask,” he laughed, “ and mellow as the 
sunlight on a harvest day.” 

She smiled, striving not to yield to an almost 
overpowering weariness. She crossed the room 
to her brother, who sat on one of the rude 
beds stroking the hound’s handsome head. “ I 
am going, Armand,” she said, bending to kiss 
him. “ Sleep well, dear one,” she murmured, 
“ sleep well,” lingering a moment with her face 
against his. He put his arm up around her 
neck drawing her closely to him. 

“ Good night,” he said happily ; “ ah, Diane, 
is it not fine to be here ? I’m so glad you 
came. It makes me laugh to think how sur- 
prised my father would be to know we were in 
the enemy’s camp.” He released her and 
bent his face to his dog’s ear. They’d better 
keep a sharp eye on us. Little Brother,” he 
whispered gayly. 

As Mademoiselle de Berny rose, her depres- 
sion and lassitude were no longer apparent, held 
in subjection by her intense pride. She bade 
Heyward good night easily, as if he were some 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


97 


chance acquaintance. He watched her as she 
moved off with a light step, between General 
Von Steuben and his secretary. Now the three 
passed into shadow, then into alternate streams 
of light from the partly open doors of the huts 
on either side of the road. So she stepped 
lightly into a future in which he had no part, 
treading his love under foot as a thing un- 
worthy. How had the right for which he had 
sacrificed all turned against him, making him 
appear base in her eyes. Jealously he watched 
the tall figure of the young secretary, moving 
with his characteristic limp closely by her side, 
his head bent in talking to her. 

Mademoiselle de Berny, glancing back, saw 
him still standing in the doorway. She felt the 
desolation of the solitary figure. 

Major Heyward,” called young Stirling 
petulantly, from his position on the bed, ‘‘ I 
am hungry. Can we not have some biscuit 
and toddy ? ” He rose frowning. ‘‘ I am so 
hungry,” he repeated crossly, “ and Tm sick. 
I don’t feel well. Go, tell Diane I want her.” 

Yes, my boy,” answered Heyward absently, 
turning from his position with a heavy sigh. 
He closed the door and bolted it for the night. 

You shall have something in a moment,” he 
said kindly, striving to speak cheerily. He 
stirred the fire briskly, and put on the kettle 
of water. When it had boiled he filled two 
pewter mugs with the toddy and put them with 


98 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


some biscuits and a little fruit he had purchased 
for his guest on the table. 

‘‘ Draw up, Armand,” he said cheerfully, 
‘‘ and see if you will not feel better.” 

The boy ate hungrily, feeding his dog also 
and allowing it to have some of the liquid 
which the Great Dane swallowed with relish, 
seated upright at its master’s side, its intelligent 
gaze observing his every motion. Heyward 
neither ate nor drank anything, but sat with 
one elbow on the table, his head resting on his 
hand as he observed his companion. He was 
alternately attracted and repelled by him. At 
times he watched him hungrily, waiting until 
young Stirling took some attitude in which his 
own personality seemed lost, and he expressed 
more his sister than himself. His laughter, 
certain cadences of his voice, the turning of 
his head, a gesture, recalled Mademoiselle de 
Berny so vividly that there seemed revealed in 
a sudden flash of light her own hidden self, as 
if in some gay mood she had taken on the 
masque of a boy. He had a curious dislike of 
the fancy which mocked him by its lack of 
reality, so that he felt hopeless and baffled as 
one encountering conditions with which he is 
powerless to deal. Armand, with the peculiar 
sensitiveness of the blind, rose and went around 
the table, standing by the young man’s side. 
He put out his hand. Heyward shivered 
beneath the touch of those delicate fingers 



tS9 7 tn/ f^Gornfuxyn^. 


. 5 ^'^ a / /tnr/ yf^ ^^4<€i/r^o 

i^y/ey <:^iye. 








V 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


99 


which wandered over his face and hair. They 
were like ghostly touches of Mademoiselle’s 
hands. 

“ Dear friend,” said the lad pitifully, ‘‘ what 
troubles you ? ” 

The hound, catching the sad intonation of 
his master’s voice, raised his head and howled 
mournfully. 

Heyward laughed in grim amusement at this 
last expression of sympathy with his gloomy 
mood. “ My dear little fellow,” he said, catch- 
ing the lad to him, “ my dear boy, it’s time for 
us to go to bed.” 

Mademoiselle de Berny had retired imme- 
diately to her room upon reaching headquar- 
ters. A colored woman brought her two lighted 
candles, and a cup of hot tea Lady Washing- 
ton had prepared for her at the suggestion of 
Lieutenant Walker. On almost any other 
occasion the primitive simplicity of her room 
could not have failed to delight the young girl. 
But now her depression was so great that she 
scarcely observed her surroundings, taking no 
note of the white sanded floor, the high nar- 
row bed pushed up primly in one corner, and 
draped with curtains of coarse linen, sweet and 
clean and smelling of lavender, the pewter bowl 
and pitcher on a shelf below a tiny cracked 
mirror, the quaint motto and the samplers, 
worked in varicolored yarns and framed. The 
spotless neatness of the room, which alone 


lOO 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


seemed cold and bare, now became the pure 
setting for her jewel-like presence. The place 
lost its simplicity by the very richness of her 
lace fichu flung on the end of the wash-stand, 
the rosary of silver beads with its crucifix of 
carved ivory, which she laid on the bed, to put 
later under her pillow. Near the lace fichu on 
the stand she laid her timepiece, her little heap 
of rings, and her chatelaine. Over the chair 
was her dress of shimmering brocaded silk, the 
color of a primrose. The edge of the skirt 
was stained and wet, the bodice retained the 
gracious lines of her figure, as outer petals 
fallen from a rose still hold the curve of the 
bud they clothed. She snuffed out one of 
the candles, and lay in bed watching the other 
one burn, with mournful eyes. She had pushed 
back the bed-curtains in order that the air 
might be freer. Physically, she was so weary 
that after her frame had once relaxed she could 
scarcely move or lift her hands from the cov- 
erlid. Despite her desire to think over the 
events of the long day, her eyelids closed 
wearily in profound slumber. 

Several hours later she awakened uneasily. 
As she opened her eyes, the candle burning 
low sputtered into a blue flame and went out. 
She had the sensation of one striving to breathe 
freely and throw off the suffocating impression 
of an evil dream. Raising herself in bed she 
looked around her fearfully. The darkness 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


lOI 


developed into a real and threatening terror. 
The cold sweat broke out over her. Instinc- 
tively, unconscious of any motive prompting 
the motion, she rose with slow and deliberate 
movements as if in a trance, and crossed to 
the one casement in her room and swung it 
open. It had ceased raining and grown warmer. 
A soft, sweet air was blowing. Through the 
breaking clouds the full moon appeared high 
in the heavens. In the misty silver light the 
form of a sentinel pacing the hill-line seemed 
of unnatural height. The chain of watch-fires 
burned redly. The air blew her hair around 
her face, which in her indefinable dread had 
acquired that pallor of the flesh more intensely 
colorless than the whiteness any inanimate ob- 
ject might possess. With one hand she held 
her night-robe together at her throat. The 
garment lent her by the Quaker housekeeper 
fell in straight, voluminous folds. Her other 
hand and arm were stretched forth to keep 
open the casement, which swung to and fro 
easily at the slightest wind. Her pained and 
abstracted gaze was fixed in one direction. 
She was dimly conscious that an instinct 
stronger than reason bade her wait. Her 
heart, which at first had beaten violently and 
irregularly, relapsed into slow throbbing. At 
last that for which she waited came to pass. 
A moan escaped her as she saw emerge from 
the black shadow of some distant woods a 


102 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


figure which moved swiftly across the moonlit 
field, beyond the rows of huts, but inside the 
line of the sentinel. She opened her lips to 
call, but no sound came. The moon was 
momentarily obscured by a cloud. When the 
darkness lifted, the figure had disappeared. 
That slender shadow-like form, led by the 
semblance of a huge dog — could it have 
been her brother? No, no; ’twas but the 
fancy of her restless mind, this ghostlike 
vision. She leant far out of the window, strain- 
ing her eyes to see once more those shadowy 
forms. But only the dark figure of the 
sentinel regularly pacing his beat met her 
gaze. 

A premonition of evil weighed suffocatingly 
upon her. She knelt by the little bed in 
which she had lain down contentedly but a 
few short hours ago. She clasped the rosary 
tightly to her breast, the sharp corners of the 
cross bruising her tender flesh. 

‘‘ Dear Mother of God,'' she whispered, 
“ Our Blessed Lady, intercede with thy dear 
Son for me, that He may remember my 
brother's blindness, and let him not meet mis- 
fortune nor trouble." Sobbingly, she repeated 
one of the convent prayers. ‘‘ I compassion- 
ate thee. Sorrowing Mary, for the terrors felt 
by thy anxious heart when thou didst lose 
thy dear son Jesus. Dear Mother, by thy 
heart, then so agitated, intercede for me. 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


103 


Obtain for me the virtue of patience and the 
gift of fortitude. Amen.” 

Even as Mademoiselle de Berny knelt weep- 
ing, Heyward, in his hut not far distant, was 
awakened sharply from the uneasy sleep into 
which he had fallen after much troubled 
thought by the knocking over of the table, 
which fell against his bed. He sprang to his 
feet and grasped the intruder. By the light 
of the dying fire, despite the moonlit air 
of the bright night, pouring in the open 
door, he recognized Armand. As in his as- 
tonishment his grasp relaxed, the boy drew 
away and flung himself heavily on his bed. 
Heyward closed the door and prodded the 
fire, piling on some light wood, which blazed 
merrily, reflecting its dancing lights in the 
stream of water which was dripping from the 
boy’s clothing. He was fully dressed, and 
must have been out a long time, for the rain 
had not ceased less than an hour ago. He 
seemed to be in a somnambulistic condition, 
as he lay on the bed with closed eyes, breathing 
rapidly, one arm flung above his head, the other 
outstretched with upturned palm, as beseech- 
ing something. But wherever he had been the 
thing of the moment consisted not in question- 
ing him, but in removing his damp clothing. 

‘‘ Armand,” said Heyward, shaking him gen- 
tly, wake up.” 

But the sleeper seemed insensible to sound 


104 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


or touch. Having now no doubt that the lad 
was in a somnambulistic state, Heyward re- 
moved his wet clothing as speedily as possible, 
gashing his left hand on the sword which hung 
unsheathed at the sleeper’s side. He wrapped 
the boy in a dry blanket taken /rom his own 
bed, and, raising the fragile form, forced some 
brandy between the lips purple with cold. 
Young Stirling half awakened, choking and 
sputtering, then as he was allowed to lie down 
again he turned over on his side and slept. 

The young man, partially dressing, seated 
himself on the bed beside the sleeper, moisten- 
ing the forehead and lips with brandy, chafing 
the slender wrists and hands until they grew 
warm again. Again he felt the old and un- 
conquerable jealousy of the lad’s resemblance 
to his sister. The hands he held so like hers, 
yet not hers, — the semblance lacking the spirit, 
— filled him with a repugnance curiously at war 
with the genuine affection he had for the boy. 
But her hands ! Ah, had he not thought to 
lay his burning face against her cool and gen- 
tle hands, as one might kneel at the shrine 
of his saint, with fevered brow and smarting 
eyes pressed against the cold stone ! With an 
effort he continued to rub the helpless hands, 
now grown quite warm, looking steadfastly at 
the beautiful face half-turned from him, leaving 
most prominent the long, oval sweep of the 
cheek and chin. The hound crouched near 


Mademoiselle de Berny 105 


his master’s head, its bright and intelligent 
eyes following the young man’s movements. 
Now and then it licked the sleeper’s face and 
hands. At last Heyward put the hands under 
the blankets, which he drew well up over the 
boy, and then sought his own bed and sat down 
at its foot, gazing long into the fire with 
troubled face. He was roused from his reverie 
by his companion, who had risen, and, with his 
hound at his heels, was moving around the 
room as if in search of something. The blind 
eyes were open, reflecting the firelight, as 
Armand felt the clothes Heyward had spread 
over the chair to dry. He knelt and examined 
the floor. At last he hit against one of the 
table legs, and rising passed his hand across the 
top on which lay his sword. Satisfied, he 
picked it up and sought his bed again. 

Heyward’s interest in his companion’s move- 
ments subsided, absorbed in his deeper thought 
and painful conjecture as by what means Mad- 
emoiselle de Berny had learned of his position 
in Philadelphia. The fire cast its last flicker- 
ing lights upon his intent colorless face ; the 
last log of wood sunk into ashes, the flames 
dying and the crimson embers blackening 
slowly. But the watcher remained heedless 
of the dark as well as of the chill air coming 
in by the door he had forgotten to fasten, and 
which had blown open. 


Chapter VII 

T he day following Heyward saw nothing 
whatever of Mademoiselle de Berny, 
and almost as little of her brother, who 
took his meals at headquarters, returning only 
to spend the night in the cabin. The young 
man deemed it wisest to refrain from mention- 
ing his guest's somnambulistic wanderings, as it 
might serve no better purpose than to terrify 
him and his sister. But he very prudently 
fastened the door so securely that it would be 
almost impossible for young Stirling to open 
it without awakening him. Neither did Mad- 
emoiselle de Berny, on her part, mention the 
circumstance which lingered hauntingly in her 
thought, although she strove to put the ghostly 
vision she had seen aside, as the disordered 
fancy of a person but half-awake. On the 
other hand, it might have been some new 
escapade on Armand’s part, which he would 
make known to her in good time. Delicacy 
held her from forcing his confidence. At least 
he was safe and with her. She preferred to 
put aside the disturbing element, with the in- 
stinctive desire to ignore that which seems 
intangible and a vague prescience of evil when 
no explanation offers itself. 

io6 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


107 


But the question, other than the lad’s mid- 
night wanderings, over which Heyward brooded 
constantly, trying to find some clue to Mad- 
emoiselle de Berny’s recognition of his official 
capacity in Philadelphia, was destined to be 
solved for him by one of those curious and 
unaccountable flashes of memory, which, sug- 
gested by a trifle, as a spark sets a train of 
powder ablaze, will illumine what has hitherto 
been impenetrably dark. Late in the after- 
noon of Mademoiselle de Berny’s second day 
in camp, he was returning from a visit to a 
brother officer who lay ill in a nearby farm- 
house. He had come into camp again by a 
roundabout way. Intending to make a short 
cut through a belt of the forest which ran for 
some distance along the creek back of head- 
quarters, he entered the bridle-path, walking 
slowly with bent head, idly swinging his sword. 
The shade of the woods was grateful to him, 
for the brightness of the sun served but to 
intensify the depression which weighed heavily 
upon him. The beauty of the spring day, con- 
trasting with his sad thought of the sick man 
he had just left, the keen joyousness of the 
earth, heedless of one of her suffering children, 
filled him with a profound melancholy. He 
sighed heavily. As if in mockery of that sigh, 
there came a faint strain of sprightly music. 
He paused and listened. The greenness of 
the woods was impenetrable, but the music 


io8 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


continued, elusive, gay, sometimes seeming 
close, then distant — unsympathetic, as in 
laughing derision of pain it stung him as a 
mocking word, rousing him irritably from his 
apathetic and melancholy mood. With some 
curiosity he turned, and parting the branches, 
pressed forward in the direction of the sound. 
He had proceeded but a few steps, however, 
when the trees became scantier, and he caught 
a flash of delicate old rose color. At last, 
some distance away, the trees formed an arch- 
way, making a natural frame for the picture 
which presented itself to his gaze. On the 
further side of the interlacing branches, arching 
green against the blue sky, there was a circle 
of unbroken ground. Beyond this the woods 
closed in again, but not so thickly, for glimpses 
of the gray stone of the headquarters could be 
seen. In the open space several people were 
moving lightly in time to the music. The 
golden sunlight, checkered in places by the 
shadows of the leaves, cast its glorifying lustre 
upon the careless and merry dancers. He recog- 
nized Mademoiselle de Berny in her primrose- 
colored gown, her brother. General Von Steu- 
ben and his secretary. Lieutenant Walker. 
Also there werg two young French officers, 
who, learning that a country-woman of theirs 
was in camp, had hastened to call. Evidently, 
they had not found her at headquarters, and 
had followed her whither she had gone for a 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


109 


stroll. Their horses were tied to nearby trees. 
An old, negro, seated on the stump with his 
fiddle, furnished the music. There was one 
person needed to complete the set, but the 
dancers made shift to change positions at the 
proper time, and were no whit disconcerted. 
Young Stirling and his dog formed one side 
of the minuet. The great hound had been 
carefully taught, and it threaded its way in- 
telligently among the dancers. His master 
moved with an ease so remarkable that his 
dancing seemed rather a spiritual than a mate- 
rial expression of the body. He had a fawn- 
like grace, a joyousness of movement which 
seemed a reflection of the buoyant spring sea- 
son. While Mademoiselle's face was essen- 
tially intellectual in its type of loveliness, his 
possessed rather a wild-woods intelligence, the 
alertness of a young forest creature ready to 
spring away at human approach. He cast an 
intoxicating spell over the solitary spectator, so 
that he found it almost impossible to turn his 
gaze upon her toward whom his thoughts ever 
tended. Now, as Mademoiselle de Berny 
passed alternately from beneath the flickering 
shade of the trees into the open sunlight, she 
too was not less a part of spring than any 
flower, in her primrose gown — the yellow 
lace kerchief crossed over her breast and 
tied around her slender waist, the miniature 
pendent from a chain around her throat. 


no 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


her dark curls caught in a high knot on her 
head. Like the jingle of tiny bells the femi- 
nine trifles hanging on silver chains from the 
chatelaine she wore swung against each other, 
— a small, sweet, silvery sound, distinct when 
the tones of the fiddle softened. Her partner 
was Baron Von Steuben. Although the little 
Prussian was skilled in the ceremonials of the 
court as in the manoeuvring of an army, yet 
his grace was less apparent than his corpulency, 
and his good, perspiring face more convincing 
of his kindly heart than the gallant attentions 
he showered upon the young girl — attentions 
which she accepted with so open and arch a 
coquetry that, despite his disapproval, her 
pretty airs brought a smile to her lovePs face, 
a smile infinitely tender in its amusement. 
H ow little she realized the suffering and priva- 
tion and the bitterness which the great body of 
soldiers in the encampment yonder bore un- 
complainingly. In France a queen played at 
being shepherdess and dairymaid in the Little 
Trianon, while a starving populace grew riot- 
ous outside her garden. Now a breath from 
that same garden mingled with the free air of 
this young country. 

On the moss-covered ground the figures of 
the dancers swayed and bowed to the minuet. 
Absorbed in the rhythmic movements, they 
did not observe the solitary spectator leaning 
against a nearby tree, until one of the buckles 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


III 


of Mademoiselle de Berny's shoes snapped and 
flew some distance, falling at the young man’s 
feet. He picked it up and returned it to her 
silently, bowing with profound gravity. But 
despite his unmoved countenance, his heart 
was throbbing tumultuously. For as Mademoi- 
selle de Berny received the buckle from him, 
her attitude as she stood with one hand out- 
stretched, the other holding her gown, the design 
of the trinket which he recognized and his 
own action in returning it, — all revealed to him 
in an almost overwhelming flash of memory 
the fact that he had met her previous to that 
time which he had hitherto deemed his first 
acquaintance with her. 

The incident, interrupting the dance, ended 
it, bringing a sharp realization of the time of 
day to Baron Von Steuben, who, bidding a 
courtly if hasty adieu to his fair companion, 
until he should rejoin her at the supper table, 
hurried away to drill a regiment, his stout, 
active figure ever a little in advance of his long- 
legged secretary, who dragged his lame foot 
lazily, and turned with a last wave of his hat to 
Mademoiselle who had seated herself on a log. 
One of the young Frenchmen knelt to fasten 
her buckle again on her shoe. The other 
officer brought her cloak, which she had re- 
moved during the dance, and put it around her. 
Then bidding her farewell, he had gone to 
untie the horses of himself and his companion. 


1 12 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


Mademoiselle de Berny glanced at Heyward 
who stood near. His eyes were fixed upon 
her in a gaze that startled and embarrassed 
her. She bent her head, directing her entire 
attention to the young officer kneeling at 
her feet. But Heyward had lost conscious- 
ness of her presence. Once more he was in 
France in the glittering ball-room at Versailles. 
Again he saw the gay figure and blue eyes of 
Marie Antoinette, the heavy face of Louis 
Quinze, whose cold eyes reflected none of the 
merriment around him, as they rested upon the 
figure which was ever the centre of the brilliant 
throng, a quaint and simply clad figure in black 
velvet, with scant, gray locks, unpowdered, fall- 
ing to the shoulders around a spectacled and 
benevolent countenance. 

This printer of seventy, exchanging the quaint 
gallantries of poor Richard with the court 
beauties, was the idol of Paris. The face of 
the hour vying in popularity with that of the 
Queen, and which was to be seen on all snuff- 
boxes and trinkets, was that of the American 
ambassador, Benjamin Franklin. Louis’ dull 
eyes alone rested unfavorably upon this unpre- 
tentious person, as if there were dawning in his 
slow mind the fact that for a king to assist the 
subjects of another sovereign who were in 
open rebellion, was setting a dangerous example 
which might in time be turned against himself. 
This envoy, representative of revolutionary 


Mademoiselle de Berny 113 


and republican sentiment in the New World, 
was firing the young French nobility with 
those ideas, leaving him, the sovereign, alone 
in his resolution to maintain peace with Eng- 
land. 

The young man recalling the intense anxiety 
as to the strength of the King’s opposition 
which weighed upon the hearts of the patri- 
ots in Paris at that time, was not amazed that 
the faces around him had made but dim impres- 
sion that night when the feeling toward the 
Insurgents was nearing a crisis and the King’s 
disfavor became apparent even toward the 
Queen consort who was foremost in feting 
Franklin. But now did he recall an abbe, 
thin, wrinkled, and of great height, with the 
sharp glance of a wit and the manner of a 
courtier. On his arm was his niece. Heyward 
could recall her even less distinctly, retaining a 
vague impression of having watched her dan- 
cing the minuet near him, as he leant against 
the wall, engaged in conversation with her 
uncle, striving not to let his anxiety as a patriot 
become apparent to the subtle abbe, who 
strongly advocated Louis’ policy to maintain 
amicable relations with Great Britain. The 
buckle of the young French girl’s slipper had 
snapped and fallen at the American’s feet, who 
had picked it up, and borrowing a knife had 
tightened the spring, which was slightly sprung. 
As he held it for her until she should have 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


114 


finished the dance, he had noted almost me- 
chanically the design of the trinket, which, 
curiously, remained his most distinct impres- 
sion of the ball. One thing he recalled posi- 
tively — the name of the abbe. Ah, fool that 
he had been not to have recognized Madem- 
oiselle as the niece of the Abbe de Berny. 
She, meeting him a year later in Philadelphia, 
whither she had accompanied her step-father 
and his son, must have recognized him as a 
young Virginian who that winter had been 
closely, although not openly, allied with Frank- 
lin at Versailles in the American cause. His 
mission there had been a secret one under the 
guise of travelling for study and recreation. 
Protected by his family and friends, all stanch 
loyalists and ignorant of his position, he had 
been enabled, upon his return from abroad, to 
spend the winter in Philadelphia engaged in 
the secret service of Washington. 

Major Heyward,’' said the French officer, 
I regret that I must resign to you the honor 
of fastening Mademoiselle’s buckle. My fin- 
gers have proven all thumbs. You will par- 
don me. Mademoiselle,” he continued, rising, 
“if I leave you so unceremoniously, but my 
division must appear at once au grande 'parole, 
I fear even now I am late.” He bent and 
kissed her hand. “Adieu, then, until this 
evening, when I shall claim a dance at head- 
quarters should His Excellency’s mood favor 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


115 


any social diversion.*' He rejoined his com- 
panion who had already mounted. 

Heyward watched them silently until their 
horses, moving at a brisk canter, disappeared 
from sight. Then he turned to Mademoiselle. 
The two seemed alone, despite the fact of 
young Stirling’s presence. He had possessed 
himself of the negro’s fiddle and stood some 
distance from them trying the strings. 

Listen, Diane,” he cried, placing the fiddle 
under his chin and drawing the bow across. 
“ Now, fellow,” he added, addressing the old 
negro, and seating himself on the ground, 
“ you may dance if you will, although it avails 
me nothing, for I cannot see. Yet, wait; you 
may teach me a song of your people. Sit 
down there, that I may feel you facing 
me.” 

The glances of the two overhearing his 
command met in a smile of mutual sympathy, 
which, in its unconsciousness of self for the 
moment, was full of spontaneity and under- 
standing. 

“ Mademoiselle,” said Heyward, seating him- 
self beside her on the log, “ in Paris once I 
had the pleasure of fixing this same buckle for 
you.” His dark eyes were full of warmth. 
He drew forth his pocket-knife, and opening 
it, proceeded to mend the trinket. Just so 
had the spring sprung before,” he continued. 

I saw you then, yet such was the anxiety of 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


1 16 


my mind at the time, that it was not until I 
recognized the design that I remembered.” 

“To forget was not gallant, Monsieur,” she 
rejoined softly. She could control her voice 
and expression so that they betrayed nothing 
of the surprise his words were to her. But 
she could not control the quickened heart 
throb which sent the blood surging over her 
face, and she turned her head from him. 

For some time neither spoke. In the mind 
of each was the same wonder, marvelling at 
the quietude fallen upon them. In secret had 
each held long and imaginary conversations 
with the other ; in secret had each rehearsed 
the explaining of bitter words — had each for- 
given and been forgiven. And both had felt 
a deep despair lest they might never have the 
opportunity to right themselves. At last they 
were together, alone and undisturbed. Yet 
now they felt no need of words. Beyond the 
little stream rippling freshly near them, the 
meadow rose in long level stretches to a hill- 
line merging purple and indistinct into the 
paling sky. Along this hill-line passed a flock 
of sheep and lambs driven by a boy and a 
dog. In the yet further distance an orchard 
in bloom made a soft and hazy mass of color. 
It was a strangely peaceful and pastoral scene, 
seemingly far remote, as of a different age in 
a different land from the encampment, where 
all was desolate ; where even the tender touch 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


117 


of the spring might not heal the desolate 
stumps, and where the bruised grass died be- 
neath the trampling of many feet on the hard 
earth worn bare and red. The plaintive negro 
melody Armand was singing sounded dreamily 
afar. Heyward, forgetting to mend the buckle, 
held it idly in his palm ; never should he for- 
get the design — the medallion of a little weep- 
ing cupid set around with gold. But a sudden 
dread of this strange quietude seized upon 
Mademoiselle de Berny. 

‘‘ It is cold,” she said, shivering and moving 
along the log to where the sunlight fell. Has 
not the breeze grown chilly ? ” 

Remembrance had blown like a cold breath 
upon her love. She drew her cloak closely 
around her. As if an entranced spell had 
been broken, her companion’s face lost the 
dreamy and happy expression which had come 
to it, and grew harassed. He felt the deep 
and natural anxiety of a young man, confident 
that his actions are guided by right principle; 
yet knowing that the woman he worships con- 
demns him, is desirous of her good opinion 
almost to the temptation of sacrificing his 
integrity. 

Mademoiselle de Berny,” he said in a low 
and troubled voice, “ only a very urgent mes- 
sage which it was necessary for me to convey 
at once to General Washington kept me from 
bidding you farewell in person, but I had writ- 


ii8 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


ten to you in explanation. It was not your 
accusation at the colFee-house which caused 
my flight/’ his face flushing darkly. “It was 
necessary that I should go that afternoon, — 
even earlier would have benefited me, — but I 
could not miss that last opportunity of seeing 
you. The letter I should have handed you 
at parting would have explained much ; but 
in my alarm lest your knowledge of my posi- 
tion might be general, and full of anxiety to 
fulfil the commission intrusted to me, the let- 
ter was forgotten. Later I discovered my loss. 
The letter was returned to me by your brother, 
or rather, by General Washington, and I de- 
stroyed it. It may be for the best that you 
never saw it. Mademoiselle, yet I do not be- 
lieve you would have judged me so harshly 
had you seen it.” 

“ Can’t you understand,” she cried, “ how 
I felt ? From the first of my meeting you 
again in Philadelphia, I suspected your posi- 
tion. Yet I scarcely dared admit it to myself. 
But that day, that day in the coffee-house ! 
To hear General Stirling answering you so 
honestly, so sincerely, with no suspicion that 
you did not meet him fairly. Was it nothing 
to see you appear less manly than he ? But 
it was not that which angered me so that I 
betrayed my knowledge to you afterwards. It 
was my horror to see Armand echo what you 
said. He, too, to express such sentiments. 


Mademoiselle de Berny 119 

The disgrace of it was torturing me. And my 
uncle nodding to what you said, believing you 
from the bottom of his heart, his heart inno- 
cent as a little child’s in its lack of suspicion. 
But it was above all Armand, Armand in his 
ignorance and his ambition for fame, seeming 
to echo only your words and drawing no dis- 
tinction between his father’s brave death in an 
open fight and the ignoble mission of a spy. 
Monsieur, I felt I should die of my anger 
with you, and when you let fall the cup of 
tea — ah, had you drank that toast, I should 
never have forgiven you ! ” She was silent 
for a moment, exhausted by the intensity with 
which she had spoken. Then suddenly she 
put out both her hands to him. Her eyes 
were wet with tears. “Ah, Monsieur,” she 
cried, “ how should a soldier meet his enemy 
save openly and with unsheathed sword and 
with fair notice that he approached ! ” 

The appeal went to her listener’s heart. 
Any defence he could make would seem a 
subterfuge. He bent and kissed her little 
hands which he had taken in his. “ Ah, dear 
Mademoiselle,” he said brokenly, “women 
cannot understand war.” 

The softness of the previous moment left 
her face. She drew her hands from his. 
“No,” she said bitterly, “I cannot under- 
stand. An honorable man may not win by 
base means. Can one touch pitch ? I am not 


120 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


unjust, Monsieur, nay, to an extent I respect 
your attitude, even have I found excuse, say- 
ing that in your veins ran a commoner blood, 
better perhaps and more unselfish than in 
mine, yet lacking that quality of pride which 
would make some men refuse to profit by the 
license of war.” 

“ Mademoiselle,” he said patiently, betray- 
ing no hurt at her words, only a great anxiety 
lest she should misunderstand him, ‘‘ it is 
doubtless a very fine thing to be cosmopolitan 
and independent to the extent you admire. 
But in time of war every man feels his depend- 
ence and also the dependence of others upon 
him. Then is not the time for fine speeches 
nor for fine gentlemen. Then a man’s duty 
is clearly and simply defined for him. He 
must stand by the side he has chosen. No 
longer is he an individual with individual 
rights. He is but part of a great whole. His 
sole obligation to society is to remain loyal to 
his party. It is better then to have a com- 
moner blood than that of so fine a strain as 
to render a gentleman of no more use than a 
priest or a woman when his country demands 
soldiers. Dear Mademoiselle,” he added 
gently, “sometime you will learn that com- 
mon-sense often proves to be more virtuous 
than the selfish and obstinate holding to an 
ideal.” 

He paused and awaited her reply. But she 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


I2I 


made none, turning her head from him so that 
he saw but the lustrous coils of her hair shad- 
owing one delicate ear and the outline of her 
cheek and chin. She was, he felt, remote and 
fir from him. The only realities in life were 
his sick friend, the movements on foot for the 
next day, the dreary encampment, — love was 
failing him, — but for comfort, his hand sought 
the hilt of his sword and rested there. 

Mademoiselle de Berny met his abstracted 
glance in which he showed no consciousness of 
her presence. 

‘‘Monsieur,” she said, “Monsieur — ” and 
when she had said that much she paused 
dumbly, unwitting what to say. 

He looked at her inquiringly. 

“It was nothing,” she said ; “ I was think- 
ing of something else. I — I scarcely knew 
what I was saying.” She looked away from 
him. “ I wish you would go away,” she said. 
“ Why do you trouble me so ^ I want you to 
go away.” Ashamed of her weakness, unable 
to control the trembling of her lips, she would 
not look at him nor say farewell when he rose 
and left her. 

The wind had grown chilly and the sunlight 
had lost its gold. The stream ran dully at her 
feet. Nervously she opened and shut the fan 
which, with other feminine trinkets, hung from 
the chatelaine around her waist, — a Louis 
Quatorze fan m.ounted on mother-of-pearl 


122 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


sticks, with a painting by Boucher of shepherd- 
esses blowing kisses to languishing swains — 
fit sceptre of a mincing and effeminate court 
wielded by hands of favorites swaying the wills 
of kings. This fragile creation, its perfume 
breathing of court intrigue and unlicensed 
amours, had no place in this young country, 
on which was dawning the new republic. In 
France, this same fan had been a thing of 
power. Here it was a toy, to be used per- 
haps and cast aside ; to be blown away lightly 
as a fallen leaf by the new sentiment which, 
like the winds of heaven, swept across the 
country, bringing new vigor and life. There 
was no place for it in this New World, even the 
best which it represented. The old-time ideal 
of honor befitting a gentleman was scorned, 
thought the girl, bitterly recalling Heyward’s 
words. What was she, save a light and fickle 
scion of that Old World whose sentiments he 
despised, whose society he flouted. He had 
met her at Versailles, and forgotten. But she 
had remembered. In her face burned a color 
the fan might not cool. She rose and went 
over to her brother. 

“Come, Armand, it is growing late.” She 
put her arm around him. “ Oh, let us go away, 
my dear, my dear ; we will leave this America 
and go back to France, Armand, — our beauti- 
ful France!” 

But he pushed her away with the arm which 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


123 


held the bow. Listen, Diane ! 
the tune. And I shall never 
France. When you go there, I 
with you.” 


I have caught 
go back to 
shall not be 


/ 


Chapter VIII 

T he 1 8th of May is marked in the his- 
tory of Philadelphia, at the Revolution- 
ary period, as the date of the Mischianza. 
At Valley Forge the day passed quietly in prep- 
aration for an expedition on the morrow to 
Barren Hill. Through Major Heyward, Gen- 
eral Washington had learned of the intention of 
the British to shortly evacuate Philadelphia. 
So uncertain, however, was the information 
which the young man was able to give, as to the 
near time of this movement, that Washington, 
to be more exact, ordered the Marquis de La 
Fayette, with .two thousand strong, to cross 
the Schuylkill and take a position near the city. 
In Philadelphia, at the same time, the folly of 
the British was hourly reaching its extreme. 
Veterans of the army, mortified by the inaction 
of Howe during the past winter, were doubly 
chagrined by this exhibition of unlicensed vanity 
and folly on the part of their commander and 
those young officers whom his defeat should 
have most humiliated. Had they not prophe- 
sied grimly that the loose discipline of the army 
was doing more to weaken its power than any 
battle yet, or to be, experienced? And among 
these veterans whose choler had been most 


124 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


125 


apparent was General Stirling. His natural 
irritation as a soldier at the condition of mili- 
tary affairs acquired an intensity of feeling from 
the fact of his private and personal anxiety as 
regarded the welfare of his nephew and Mad- 
emoiselle de Berny. True, he had news of 
them which was, in its way, ample assurance of 
their safety. But secretly he fretted much — 
lonely and irritable in their absence. A note, 
written by Mademoiselle de Berny and duly 
inspected by Washington, had been given to 
a young lieutenant about to set out with his 
men on a foraging expedition. As instructed, 
the officer gave the letter to a farmer going 
into town, and the countryman conveyed the 
missive to General Stirling. The old soldier 
re-read the note many times, shaking his head 
dubiously as Mademoiselle de Berny explained 
briefly her following Armand to Valley Forge, 
taking much complacent and pleasant credit to 
herself for the intuition which had guided her 
so wisely, and speaking naught of any motive 
which , had inspired Armand to go to the 
rebels’ camp beyond a spirit of adventure. 
Richard Heyward’s name was not mentioned. 
And with a last assurance that General Wash- 
ington, who was a kindly host, would return 
herself and her brother to Philadelphia as soon 
as it was expedient, and the journey could be 
taken safely, she enclosed her very dutiful re- 
spect and love. 


126 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


“Ah, Diane,” said the soldier, placing the 
non-committal little note in his breast pocket, 
“ye harry up my feelings sorely. Fain would 
I be to clip your pretty wings, and send ye 
back to France to stay until this war is over. 
Though ye would naught confess it, my girl, 
I fear me that that young rebel who served 
us so neat a trick in slipping away has some- 
what to do with this journey. Back to France 
ye go for this trick, Diane, though it tear my 
heart-strings. But with one eye on the war, 
the other of mine orbs is not enough to keep 
guard o’er ye, lest ye marry some worthless 
scalawag who betrayeth his king.” 

At the great ball in the evening. General 
Stirling was one of the few officers who ap- 
peared in full-dress uniform, wandering dis- 
consolately from corner to corner, satisfied only 
in finding some old comrade who would listen 
sympathetically to his contemptuous comments 
on the fair ladies and knights swaying to the 
stately measure of the minuet, with gay aban- 
donment to the pleasure of the moment and 
scornful of any adverse criticism. The only 
thing which had made the thought of the enter- 
tainment endurable to him was the pleasurable 
anticipation it had afforded Mademoiselle de 
Berny. He recalled the delight with which she 
had shown him the gown to be worn upon this 
occasion. Had she not refused to have any 
knight but him ? In his secret heart the old 


127 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


soldier had pictured himself with the lovely 
and girlish figure at his side, slowly prome- 
nading the ball-room ; he, who was childless, 
lavishing on her the pride and affection he 
would bestow on a daughter, vain of her 
accomplishments and beauty, whereas he would 
have blushed at praise of his own valor and 
prowess. It was this disappointment to his 
loving pride, when like an over-foolish parent 
he would have seen her first among those 
Philistines he flouted, which hurt him sorely. 
Curiously enough he had no feeling regarding 
the fact of her leaving him, heedless of the 
anxiety which would be his. A lonely and 
middle-aged man, never having had wife or 
child, he had cherished in his heart a secret 
ideal of his daughter — the daughter who had 
been his only in fancy until Mademoiselle de 
Berny came to fill that sacred place, and re- 
ceive the tenderness of a pathetic love which 
had heretofore found no outlet. He left the 
ball-room at an early hour and went to his 
quarters, veiling his loneliness under a masque 
of surliness, which made his presence more to 
be shunned than desired. .Had not Diane’s 
absence made the day and evening doubly a 
mockery and doubly distasteful to him 

But the ball went on merrily, despite the 
prediction of the gloomy old general and his 
especial cronies seated smoking their pipes 
under the starlit sky on the upper balcony 


128 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


of a stately Philadelphian home, while to their 
unwilling ears came the sound of dance music. 
The revellers’ laughter filled the soft spring 
air, blowing sweet across what had once been 
‘‘ Penn’s faire greene countrie town,” but was 
now a captive city, filled by swaggering red- 
coats, with its stateliest homes made the army 
quarters, with Old World follies and vices run- 
ning riot, while gambling and drinking halls 
flourished, and officers fought duels in this 
city of the peace-loving Quakers. And as he 
sat smoking his pipe grimly. General Stirling 
fell to dreaming waking dreams. Soft as the 
touch of a baby’s hand on his warrior face his 
hope of a home in old England with his 
adopted children soothed his troubled mind. 
Diane should have her heart’s desire. Did 
she want her lilies ? He would find her fields 
of them wherein she might gather all she 
would, he told himself, calling the lilies by 
their sweet old English name of flower-de- 
luce. 

Since early morning had this day’s fete con- 
tinued. Entitled the Mischianzay — an Italian 
word signifying medley ^ — it was without doubt 
the most magnificent display of folly ever held 
in America. Given in honor of the retiring 
commander. Lord Howe, it seemed a proper 
finish to the frivolities and sensualities of the 
British in Philadelphia. During the day a re- 
gatta and mock tournament had been enacted. 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


129 


and the participants continued to wear the cos- 
tumes of the tournament, appearing thus dressed 
at the ball in the evening. But few uniforms 
were to be seen, and they appeared strangely 
incongruous in this assemblage. The knights 
of the Blended Rose were dressed in white 
and pink satin, with hats of pink silk and 
white feathers. The knights of the Burning 
Mountain were attired in black and orange. 
Each knight had his squire bearing a shield 
and spear. Of the women, all gayly attired in 
the. colors of their respective knights, none 
were wives or sisters of the British officers. 
They were American women, resident in Phil- 
adelphia, whose appearance at this ball drew 
forth bitter condemnation from the Conti- 
nental Army and its sympathizers. So high 
did this sentiment run that when the Ameri- 
cans regained possession of the city there was 
a heated discussion as to whether these same 
young women should be invited to attend the 
Whig ball; but the gallantry of General Ar- 
nold, so soon to marry into a Tory family, 
and, alas, to turn traitor, prevailed, and these 
same fickle dames appeared iri full force at 
the later ball. For this memorable evening 
of the Mischianza, the ball-room had long been 
in preparation. The walls and ceilings, which 
were blue panelled with gold, were adorned 
with festoons of pink, crimson, and yellow 
roses, which some young officers, under the 


130 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


direction of Major John Andre, had passed 
hours in painting. Half-way up the walls 
from the floor, sixty large mirrors reflected 
the gay scene. Great branches of wax-lights 
added a wonderful brilliancy. As some reck- 
less masque — an abandonment of folly and 
magnificence — did this dance seem. Had the 
officers lost all self-respect, that in time of war 
and great distress they cast aside their uni- 
forms to attire themselves foppishly in satins 
and feathers, forgetting their own wives and 
sweethearts in the mother-country for these 
pleasure -loving Whig ladies, passing over 
lightly the grave rebuke implied by their 
commander's recall to England ? Early in 
the evening — before ten o'clock — a young 
Whig lieutenant, with a company of Dra- 
goons, sought to break up the party by firing 
the abatis at the north of the city, which 
connected the line of the British redoubts. 
Out on the great verandah of the building in 
which they were crowded came the knights 
and ladies, like some fairy pageant in the 
moonshine and the light streaming out from 
the casements of the ball-room. The breeze 
blew the silver and gold gauze veils, stream- 
ing from the powdered hair of the fair Dul- 
cineas, as they leant forward, watching the 
flames — masses of orange light against the 
deep blue sky. The roll-call sounded along 
the line, and the guns of the redoubts thun- 


Mademoiselle de Berny 




dered forth ominously. Little recked the 
ladies that the hearts of their knights were 
perturbed beneath the white satin waistcoats 
the while their gallantry caused them to ap- 
plaud with their companions, lest the latter 
suspect that the brilliant illumination and the 
firing were not at all a part of the celebration. 
And as the flames died down and they re- 
turned once more to the dance, all unaware 
were they of a merry canter, when horse flew 
by horse from out Philadelphia in pursuit of 
the incendiaries. And on these hdrses were 
mounted many of the veterans of the British 
Army, General Stirling leading in the mad 
chase. Overhead was the sky glittering with 
the stars and moon ; their horses’ feet seemed 
but to touch the springy earth. Far afield 
the unbroken moonlit stretch of country across 
which they rode, a moving shadow indicated 
the fleeing Whigs. Now and then came back 
a faint, far call of defiance, which was caught 
up by the lusty British and sent pealing back 
again. 

Little thought General Stirling that among 
those whom he pursued was his nephew. The 
adventure was not a perilous one ; the wonder- 
ful clear beauty of the night and the entreaties 
of Armand, as he passionately begged permis- 
sion to accompany the expedition, had caused 
Heyward, who was one of the leaders, to 
mount the lad on his own horse, while he. 


132 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


securing another mount, guided his own and 
his companion's horse. Glancing back, he saw 
the British had dropped behind and evidently 
ceased pursuit; he looked at his companion 
and was glad he had brought him, so exultantly 
joyous was the lad. His fair hair had be- 
come unloosened, and hung waving to his 
shoulders with a sheen of silver on it from 
the moonlight. In his white delicate face, 
his eyes seemed large and black, revealing no 
lack of intelligence. His slender figure was 
seated erectly. The Great Dane kept close 
at the horse’s side. It was as if the height of 
the boy’s ambition had been reached. Never 
before in his life had he been so joyous, never 
again should he be so ! 

It was nearly twelve o’clock when they 
reached Valley Forge. Mademoiselle de Berny 
had retired hours ago and was sleeping sweetly, 
unwitting of the merry adventure of her brother. 
And in Philadelphia the dance went on mer- 
rily, the officers since the interruption aban- 
doning themselves recklessly to the pleasure of 
those rose-wreathed hours. 

Between four and five o’clock in the morn- 
ing doors, hitherto artfully concealed by flow- 
ers, were opened, disclosing a dining-room of 
magnificent proportions. As the gay company 
entered this room, headed by Lord Howe and 
his lady, the barbaric splendor of the scene 
gained its completing touch as the dancers 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


133 


passed between eighty black slaves in Oriental 
dress, with silver collars and bracelets, arranged 
in two lines and bowing to the ground. In 
this room were two tables reaching from one 
end to the other and loaded with pyramids of 
jellies, sillabub, cakes, and sweetmeats. At 
the conclusion of the supper the herald of the 
Blended Rose, whose side had won in the 
tournament, entered in his habit of ceremony, 
of rose-red satin and silver lace, and proclaimed 
the King’s health, the Queen’s, and those of the 
royal family, and of Lord Howe and his lady, 
the army and navy and their respective com- 
manders, the knights and their ladies. Each 
of these toasts was followed by a flourish of 
music. And at the last the company rose and, 
amid the clinking of wine glasses, sang “ God 
Save the King,” while the wax candles burned 
low and the rose of pleasure faded beneath the 
disillusionizing light of day. The sober reality 
of war was to end this gorgeous pageantry for 
the British officers, and the pricking of their 
consciences make the remembrance of the fes- 
tivities a sore spot in the memories of the Whig 
damsels. 

At the same time, but twenty miles distant, 
two thousand men in ragged uniforms stood 
with bowed heads receiving the benediction of 
their chaplain. The gray light of dawn fell 
harshly on the grim faces marked by privation 
and irking care, the hollow cheeks mostly dark 


134 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


with a heavy beard. Their gaunt features wore 
an expression of stoicism, neither elation nor 
despair. But the eager piercing eyes were full 
of dauntless fire. For these men there was 
nothing left to fear. They had known the 
worst. The past terrible winter they had been 
called upon to endure all that seemed unendur- 
able. Their bare feet had left bloody prints 
upon the snow. They had known nakedness 
and starvation ; they had been stricken by dis- 
ease and had seen their comrades dying from 
exposure. Their beloved commander had been 
reviled. More than possible failure ever stared 
them in the face. The liberty for which they 
endured, as well as fought, seemed ever to fly 
from them, eluding their eager grasp which 
closed upon air. Over their heads, as the 
sword suspended by a single hair, hung the 
threat of abject slavery in case of failure. But 
grimly, without a sigh for their dark lot, as 
the bleak winter world cherished the eternal 
promise of spring, so did the stern blood of 
the Puritan fathers flowing in their veins 
remind them that the Lord did not leave his 
righteous ones to perish. Their constant 
prayer of endurance had arisen ; “ Oh, Lord, 
how long wilt thou look on ! Deliver my 
soul from the sword ; my darling from the 
power of the dog; save me from the lion’s 
mouth ; from the wicked that oppress me ; 
from my deadly enemies who compass me 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


135 


about. Keep me as the apple of the eye, 
hide me under the shadow of thy wing.’' 

And so, with the melting of the snows and 
the budding of the trees, spring had returned ; 
and as its warm, sunny smile caused the break- 
ing up of the ice-bound rivers, so had the 
flood-gates of bitterness and stoicism in these 
men’s hearts opened to the on-rushing tide of 
hope which reflooded and inspired them. As 
the troops formed, there was to be seen none 
of the pomp and circumstance of war, but good 
muscle and vigorous action and the swinging 
stride of hardened men. Under a cluster 
of trees stood a little group of women, com- 
posed of Lady Washington and the wives of 
some of the officers. Mademoiselle de Berny 
was also one of the group. Her brother had 
wandered nearer the troops. He sat, a sightless, 
eager listener, at the foot of a giant oak, his 
arm around the neck of his hound, the two 
faces pressed together. The lad’s hair, with 
its peculiar ash-yellow tint, seemed the color 
of a flower. He had had but a few hours’ 
sleep, and his pallor showed him to be ex- 
hausted from the hard ride of the night just 
drawing to a close. The imposing figure of 
His Excellency, on his white horse, was seen, 
first here and then there, as he surveyed the 
soldiers. The first sun-rays struck sharply 
through the trees. But there were no brilliant 
uniforms to glitter in the light. There was 




Mademoiselle de Berny 


heard no martial music to quicken the cours- 
ing of the blood. But there was a dash of 
color as a regiment of Indian warriors stepped 
into line, their painted bodies glistening, their 
heads gayly adorned with nodding feathers. 
From amidst a body of mounted officers, there 
moved out one soldier, bearing aloft a white 
standard with the gold fleur-de-lis. A pro- 
longed huzza arose. 

They were the French lilies. 

Mademoiselle de Berny's hands were in- 
voluntarily pressed against her throbbing heart. 
Did she not recognize the manly figure in its 
uniform of buff and blue, the impetuous back- 
ward fling of the handsome powdered head as 
the soldier removed his hat? It was Major 
Heyward. The horse, with its satiny head, 
its quivering nostrils, and slender legs, seemed 
a part of the youth and grace embodied in the 
rider. Across the intervening troops the 
young man’s gaze fell upon a girl’s figure in 
a brown Quaker cloak. Beneath her proud 
gaze he saw shining a deep and shy regard. 
With instinctive humbleness, an answering shy- 
ness springing up within himself, he looked 
away. The huzzas rose again, swelling louder 
on the fresh morning air to the cry of the 
French officers caught up by the Americans, 
“ Vive la France ! ” 

But there was one soldier who heard the 
triumphal shouting only as a din above which 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


137 


he listened to the whisper of an unspoken love. 
Where others saw the gleaming of white satin, 
he was reminded of the immaculate honor and 
purity shining in worshipped eyes ; where the 
embroidered lilies glittered like gold to the 
gaze of the soldiers, he saw forming the match- 
less hues of a fairer flower of France. 

Far down the road, as the troops moved on. 
Mademoiselle de Berny watched the waving 
banner with dreaming eyes, unconscious that 
the rest of the women with whom she had 
been standing had moved away, leaving her 
alone. She saw her brother approaching, his 
hand resting on the hound’s head, who was 
leading him toward her. 

‘‘ Diane,” said the boy, passing his hand 
over her face to assure himself that it was she, 

I’m so hungry. Let us go in now to break- 
fast. Then afterward we will go back to the 
tree over there, where we will spend the day. 
The moss is like velvet, is it not. Little 
Brother ? ” he added, stroking the hound’s 
head ; ‘‘ and you will like it as well as I, old 
lazy-bones, to cushion yourself on. Diane, 
I get so tired, and I ache so from the bed 
I have here. ’Tis naught but straw on boards, 
although Major Heyward lets me have all the 
blankets.” 

He put his arm around his sister’s neck, 
and rubbed his cheek against hers, laughing. 

‘‘ I should not tell my father that if he were 


J 


138 Mademoiselle de Berny 


here, Diane. He would say, ‘ Fie, fie, a fine 
soldier you would make, my lad, if you can’t 
stand camp life, and complain about a hard 
bed. Suppose you had to sleep on the frozen 
ground, as many have to do ! ’ That’s what 
he’d say, Diane.” 

They spent the greater part of the day out 
of doors beneath the tree of which Armand 
had spoken. He amused himself by making 
excursions into the neighboring woods and 
gathering wild flowers, which he would arrange 
with marvellous grace and dexterity, as if their 
subtle fragrance and form guided his fingers 
more surely than the sight of the blossoms 
could have done. 

The camp was quiet. The languor of the 
soft spring day rested on all. There was the 
air of relaxed discipline to be seen in an army 
prepared to break camp, and move on at once 
in obedience to orders, but waiting idly day 
after day for summons. But little signs of 
activity were to be seen. From the chimneys 
rose the thin bluish puffs of smoke of the fires 
by which the soldiers prepared dinner. Now 
and then parties of men, yoked together to 
carts of their own contrivance, were to be seen 
dragging wood and provisions from the store- 
house to their huts. In the fields detachments 
were being drilled by General Von Steuben. 
Young Stirling, becoming tired, lay down upon 
the moss, his head pillowed on the Great 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


139 


Dane’s back. The checkered sunlight lay 
upon him in flecks of gold and shone brightly 
in his open eyes. In those sightless eyes so 
blank and glassy Mademoiselle de Berny saw 
as in a mirror the shifting reflections of the 
leaves overhead against the blue sky, her own 
fair and wistful face in miniature. The remem- 
brance of the shadowy figure she had seen 
crossing the field the first night of her stay at 
Valley Forge came back hauntingly to her, 
with a prescience of evil. Yet she lacked 
the courage to mention the circumstance to 
her brother. As a child, delicate, reserved 
and haughty, he seldom took any one into 
his confidence, sometimes doing things in a 
strangely secretive way, most pitifully apparent 
to the great seeing world, but of this latter fact 
he was unconscious. Early in life Mademoi- 
selle de Berny had recognized this trait as the 
instinctive and pathetically suspicious attitude 
of the blind. But there were times when not 
even her perfect comprehension of this could 
render her impassive to the hurt done her 
tender love by his lack of trust. Ah, how 
many times had her own eloquent gaze rested 
upon his blind eyes with the burning desire 
that once, once only if no more, they might 
meet hers with understanding and she see his 
soul shining in them ! Ah, to draw aside the 
curtain of his blindness and look down into his 
heart ! But his affliction separated them as a 


140 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


screen, so slight that through it might be heard 
the beating of their hearts, but so impenetrable 
that they could not see each other. When, as 
a little boy he had fallen asleep, content only if 
she were beside him, then he had seemed most 
hers. Then the shut white lids veiled the 
sightless eyes and he was like other children, 
tangible and human in slumber. So she 
would watch him with the fancy in her heart 
that the lids would open and reveal bright and 
intelligent eyes. Her anxiety to know the 
truth of the incident of the other night deep- 
ened. In the hound’s honest gaze she seemed 
to see an intelligence struggling for expression. 
They were strangely mated, these two, thought 
the girl sadly, Armand and the dog he termed 
Little Brother, the one who could speak but 
might not see, the other, the dumb friend 
whose eyes served for two. 

At her brother’s request she began to tell 
him her oft-repeated stories of legendary 
heroes, and of actual men who had lived or 
died bravely. Always after she had read or 
talked to him for a little while, he would 
interrupt, commanding her to speak of his 
father. 

“ He was very brave, Armand,” she would 
begin. 

‘‘ I know,” the lad would rejoin eagerly. 

‘‘And he loved a good joke.” 

“I remember,” he would laugh, “and the 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


141 


time he and I sewed the sleeves of your dress 
up. How it rained that afternoon, and I was 
sick. I do not like the storm, Diane. It is 
so lonely. I can tell every time it is going to 
thunder. It makes me shake all over. How 
I cried that afternoon, and my father would 
make me laugh. You were cross because of 
the joke. But my father made you laugh, 
too.'' 

Yes, dear," she would rejoin, and I tore 
my dress trying to get into it. What broad 
shoulders your father had. He used to carry 
you around perched up on one when you were 
a little fellow." 

But this afternoon, although she waited for 
him to continue the familiar conversation, he 
remained silent. 

“ Diane," he said at last, ‘‘ my father was 
sad because I was blind. I heard him say 
once it would not have mattered had I been a 
girl, but I was his only son." 

‘‘ Yes, dear," she said cheerily, although the 
tears rushed to her eyes, “ that was why your 
father loved you so — because you were his 
only son." 

“ Do you suppose it hurt him to die, 
Diane ^ " 

‘‘He died like a soldier, Armand." 

“ Diane," he said, fingering his sword lov- 
ingly, “ do you think he knows that I am a 
prisoner of war? Perhaps, Diane," he said 


142 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


very softly, reaching for her hand, “it is not 
necessary that one should fight to serve one’s 
king.” 

He lay smiling, and at last laughed outright 
from the delight of his secret thoughts. 

“Ah, Diane,” he joked, “what do women 
know of war ? ” 


Chapter IX 

T he night fell calm and beautiful. There 
was no moon, but the starlight was brill- 
iant, filling the air with a white radi- 
ance. At Barren Hill the Continental troops 
slept, some few of the soldiers wrapped in 
blankets, but the majority lying on the bare 
ground. The air was warm and soft as that 
of summer. The murmur of the Schuylkill 
River was softened by distance. The gray 
stone walls of the two or three houses, the 
school building, the old church of St. Peter’s, 
which buildings alone composed the settle- 
ment, were softly defined in the starlight. Far 
away as red sparks showed the watch-fires 
of Valley Forge. An equal distance to the 
south lay Philadelphia. In the shadow of the 
wall of the old church lay the graveyard. On 
and about the headstones several young ofii- 
cers had spread their blankets, and sat smoking 
and conversing in low tones. Major Heyward 
was of the party. He had stretched his blanket 
on the long soft grass, and leant back against 
the church wall, but half-listening to the con- 
versation of his companions, as he smoked 
leisurely with careful attention given to the 
red glow in the bowl of his pipe. He found 
143 


144 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


himself endeavoring to spell out an inscrip- 
tion on a headstone of white marble almost 
sunken in the ground and half-covered by 
moss. With idle interest he leant forward to 
see the words plainly, which as he read them 
breathed a pathos that stirred his heart with 
pity: — 

Here lyes Buried ye Body 
of Anne, wife to one William Chew, 

Who Departed this Life, T>tcbr ; loth. Anno Domini 
1705 in ye 20th year of her age 
leaving to mourn her, her Husband 
and her Two Lyttel Children. 


He read the inscription musingly, picturing 
the life of this woman long faded to dust, who 
in her short years had lived much of life. He 
had a curious fancy that near the boundary of 
the spirit land her soul must hover, as one not 
content with what death had wrought, beseech- 
ing once more entrance to the world as having 
therein all claim to earthly happiness. To 
have been cut down in the flower of her youth 
— yet she had known somewhat of the fulness 
of life. 

Through his mind ran the undercurrent of 
his thought regarding Mademoiselle de Berny. 
She was older by two years than the dead 
woman ; but the one was wife, mother, and 
dead, while the other was a girl, young, joyous, 
with life untried, further removed by lack 
of experience from the poor young mother 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


H5 


so long dead than by any stretch of years. 
He looked up at the serene sky. The night 
kindly to lovers filled his heart with hope, 
bringing him conviction that the day would 
dawn when she should understand fully all 
that which now seemed so unforgivable and 
beyond the pale of honor to her. 

A great tenderness swept over him. The 
life of this buried woman was such as his 
mother might have led — a stern hard life, bat- 
tling with crushing realities. That this dead 
woman, that his own ancestors had borne such 
hardships, seemed in no wise a pitiable thing 
save for the slight pathos the inscription had 
awakened in him. The stern blood of the 
Puritan fathers ran purely in him. To endure 
for principle, to sacrifice all to the right, seemed 
but the natural mode of living. From these 
women Mademoiselle de Berny was remote as 
some rare flower plucked in a foreign land. 
The passionate tenderness of his love for her 
knew but one desire — that she might never 
know pain nor sorrow. Truly, had these other 
women proven themselves “as gold which is 
tried.'* But she was not of that quality ; not 
one made to be enduring and strong, but lovely, 
fair, and to be protected. For her was to be 
no fiery ordeal ; of no heroic metal was she 
made ; but she was most perfect in herself 
— a flower which would droop beneath the 
blazing sun ; her exquisite charm, like the sun- 


146 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


lit dust of the butterfly’s wing or the purple 
bloom of the grape, would vanish at the rude 
touch. 

From his breast pocket he drew the buckle 
of her shoe, which he had unconsciously re- 
tained the other day on leaving her. The 
gold glittered palely in the starlight ; the de- 
sign of the medallion he could see but faintly, 
a mere suggestion of the little weeping cupid. 
He turned the trinket over in his palm to 
where her name and the date were engraved 
on the back. 

“Ah, my beautiful Diane,” he murmured, 
“ I wish there existed neither, tyranny nor 
oppression in the world, and that my country 
were at peace ! Then might I live quietly with 
you ; then might I teach you, that courage 
which risks the lives of others to further per- 
sonal glory is but vanity ; that pride in virtue 
is too often self-righteous, grasping the sub- 
stance and losing the spirit.” 

Very early in the morning, as the mists 
lifted from the river, scarlet coats could be 
seen advancing through the trees in the distant 
forest. It was then that the Marquis de La 
Fayette made the serious mistake which threat- 
ened to involve the entire Continental troops. 
What was really the British advance, he be- 
lieved to be a troop of American Dragoons, 
who wore scarlet uniforms. It was not until 
he perceived, on the extreme left, more red- 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


H7 


coats that his danger became apparent to him ; 
and, to the right, another column was seen 
advancing. The enemy, marching at night, 
moving rapidly and quietly, had approached 
within a mile of Barren Hill. 

Upon the peaceful air thundered the alarum 
guns of Valley Forge, warning La Fayette, 
hoarse, booming, menacing. From his post 
of watching, eight miles away, on the hilltop 
at Valley Forge, Washington was observing, 
through a field-glass, the distant operations. 
Motionless as a silhouette against the sky. His 
Excellency’s massive form, on his white horse, 
was to be distinguished some way apart from 
his" officers, who conversed in low tones and 
with perturbed glances cast upon the majestic 
figure of their commander, whose face was 
frozen into a silence none dared disturb. The 
dignity of his bearing was such that those of 
his staff who were American officers and had 
seen La Fayette given promotions to which 
they were most justly entitled, grew ashamed, 
and their jealous murmurings that some one 
else than this French boy should have been 
sent out, died away. Perhaps it was then that 
Washington suffered the last and most bitter 
trial of the past winter, and a black despair 
filled his heart. For this had his men dragged 
through those mournful months, — to have the 
flower of his army in great danger, threatening 
an absolute collapse of the remaining troops. 


148 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


now in that weak condition which the least thing 
would shatter. 

Now he caught glimpses of the buff and 
blue uniforms of the Continental soldiers ad- 
vancing towards the enemy. The intention of 
the young Marquis to meet an enemy vastly 
superior in force was suicidal. Battle seemed 
imminent. In another moment the command 
was given for the remainder of the army at 
Valley Forge to form in marching order. His 
Excellency intended to send out reinforce- 
ments. 

But suddenly, from under cover of the 
forest on the northern side of Barren Hill, 
Washington saw through his field-glass the 
Continental troops step forth, moving briskly 
up the river road towards Valley Forge. 

The Marquis de La Fayette’s manoeuvre 
became apparent to his anxious commander. 
The buff and blue uniforms seen in the woods 
belonged to small parties ordered to present 
themselves as the head of the attacking col- 
umns, thus deceiving the antagonist while the 
main troops beat a hasty retreat and were 
nearing the ford as the enemy, pausing, pre- 
pared to give battle. 

Up to this time the British had remained 
silent, but now there burst upon the fresh 
morning air strains of martial music — reso- 
nant, triumphant. Silently, swiftly, the Amer- 
ican troops had moved along the river road 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


149 


until they reached the ford and had crossed to 
the other side. Then they swung off their 
hats, and raising their heads, wet though they 
were, hungry, defeated in their original plan of 
action, yet glorying in their escape, they gave 
vent to a prolonged huzza, which well-nigh 
split their throats — an huzza, clear, defiant, 
exultant, drowning and ending at once the 
British music. 

From Valley Forge the guns pealed forth 
again, no longer in ominous warning, but 
thundering defiance. 

His Excellency's compressed lips opened to 
an inarticulate sound between a groan of relief 
and a choking sound of triumph. 

«It is the ragged fellows," he cried, hand- 
ing his field-glass to an officer; ‘^the ragged 
fellows who carry the day ! " 

A young officer of the Continental troops, 
making his way cautiously along a bridle path, 
threading the woods at Barren Hill, paused to 
listen — a grim smile on his face as he com- 
prehended the triumphal shouting. Then he 
moved on, with careful outlook for any enemy, 
conscious of the rashness of the venture which 
imperilled his freedom for the sake of a 
woman's trinket. Wakened suddenly from 
deep slumber that morning, Heyward had 
forgotten the buckle of Mademoiselle de 
Berny’s shoe, not discovering his loss until 
later. He was confident that it had slipped 


150 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


from his pocket during sleep, and probably 
lay on the ground where he had been. A 
member of one of the patrols which had ridden 
out to deceive the antagonists, his party had 
engaged in a bloodless skirmish with some 
British Dragoons encountered at a cross-roads. 
In the skirmish he was separated from his com- 
panions, who had been able to follow closely 
upon the heels of La Fayette, and had made 
the retreat in safety. 

Thus, thrown as it were upon his own re- 
sources, and with only himself for whom to be 
responsible, he determined to make an effort 
to recover the buckle. He had passed along a 
path seldom used and in the densest part of 
the woods, which sheltered him from the ob- 
servation of the red-coats. At last, reaching 
the hill, he had led his horse half-way up the 
slope and tied him to a tree. He deemed it 
wiser to make the rest of the way alone. But 
a dash into the church-yard, where it was 
doubtless safe, for the enemy had not as yet 
ascended the hill, a moment in which to search 
for the buckle, and then a run for his horse. 
True, the British might sight and pursue him. 
But with his sword and Mademoiselle’s buckle 
in his breast pocket as a talisman against harm, 
and his good horse given loose rein, he could 
well afford to fling defiance in the very teeth 
of his enemy. And the adventure was a right 
merry one. Above the hilltop as he climbed 


Mademoiselle de Berny 15 1 


he could see the tall church steeple with its 
gilt cross glittering against the blue sky. The 
cross, emblem of papacy to him, reminded him 
of Mademoiselle de Berny, Mademoiselle wear- 
ing the rosary, which stood for her religion, 
living purely, clinging with dauntless and child- 
like faith to her ideals, and bidding him also 
reach her supreme height serene and aloof from 
the struggle and tear of worldly life he must 
lead among men, as this cross was. It pointed 
to the peace of heaven, as if beneath it existed 
not the violent passions of men pitted against 
one another in deadly struggle. 

Around him on all sides was the dense wood 
of the steep hillside, the undergrowth making 
the greenness impenetrable, so that he could see 
but a few feet ahead of him. Wood flowers — 
wild, frail children of the forest — waxed pale 
and delicate in the shade. They, too, made 
him think of Mademoiselle, as indeed every- 
thing beautiful did, or, he reflected pushing 
apart the undergrowth where it grew high on 
the unfrequented path, as also everything 
which was not so recalled her by reason of 
the contrast it afforded to her perfection. 
His thought was none the less tender for his 
amusement as he reflected how all things 
centred around her — events in his past life, 
once important, now acquiring significance 
only as they served to date back from the time 
when he had met her. He pushed aside a 


152 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


heavy bough hanging low and concealing the 
path in front of him. 

“ ‘ My lovely maid, IVe often thought,’ ” 
he hummed, stopping abruptly a second later 
and raising his musket quickly to his shoulder. 
Where another path crossed the one by which 
he had come, stood a Quaker with his back 
turned to him. He had not heard Heyward 
approach, being absorbed in watching some- 
thing visible to him alone at the foot of the 
hill through a gap in the trees. 

The recognition of the unwieldy huge figure, 
of the profile half-turned from him, and expres- 
sive only of coarseness and cunning aroused in 
Heyward a revulsion of feeling so intense that 
he paled from emotion. The man he knew to 
be a paid spy of the British, a nature of the 
utmost malignity masking its mission beneath 
the meek garb of the Friends. The fellow 
leant forward, his expression of interest inten- 
sifying. 

It was impossible for the young man to 
retreat. Neither did he desire to do so. 
Taking a swift step forward, he covered the 
Quaker with his musket. A twig snapped 
beneath his foot. The man turned, startled, 
and retreated a foot or two as he perceived the 
hostile attitude of the young man whom he 
recognized. The threat of the musket served 
for words between the two men, whose enmity 
had flamed up at the encounter. The Quaker, 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


153 


endeavoring to speak, opened and shut his 
mouth dumbly several times. The cold sweat 
came out in drops on his countenance, and his 
breathing could be heard as if drawn in pain. 
His pink, sleek countenance became white and 
flabby, his weak eyes blinking continuously 
behind his spectacles. 

As Heyward commenced speaking, his voice 
was drowned by a sudden burst of noise, — mad 
calls and yells, a medley of shrieks, the guttural 
voices of Indians mingling with calls for re- 
inforcement from the British. A reconnoi- 
tring party of red-coats were moving stealthily 
around the hill, while the regiment of Indians 
of the Continental Army, which had been cut 
off* by some British Dragoons from accompany- 
ing La Fayette, were endeavoring to follow his 
retreat. Creeping on their hands and knees to 
avoid being seen, the Indians had suddenly met 
the enemy face to face, to the dire confusion of 
both parties. This prospective skirmish was 
that which the Quaker had been absorbed 
in watching when Heyward came upon him. 
The young man, catching a glimpse of the 
Indians, rightly guessed the cause of the con- 
fusion. Realizing his imminent danger, should 
any of the red-coats seek to escape by rushing 
up the hill, he ascended to the top hastily, 
keeping the Quaker ahead of him, with his 
musket pressed against the prisoner's back. 
Fortunately the path led to the rear of the old 


154 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


church, the stone wall of which was greatly 
sunken ; the back door was torn off its hinges. 
Heyward, hearing the guns for the recall of 
the reconnoitring parties being fired repeatedly 
and imperatively, signifying the return march 
of the enemy, was confident that the red-coats, 
while they might pass through the settlement, 
were not likely to pause for close investigation 
of any building. Another chance also remained 
to him, that of making a dash for his horse, 
mounting and running the risk of being pur- 
sued. But to seize this opportunity was to 
abandon his original purpose, and also set at 
liberty a dangerous enemy to the American 
cause. 

The interior of the building, being like some 
great empty barn, had nothing churchly about 
it, save where above the dismantled altar the 
sunshine fell through the broken stained glass 
window in a glory of rose and purple and green 
light. Near the main entrance, opening on the 
street, stood the baptismal font, its marble 
nicked and broken, and its bowl long turned 
into a drinking trough for horses. One of the 
front doors had been torn from its hinges and 
lay on the floor of the church. Long ago the 
pews had been taken away. In one corner a 
pile of straw showed that some one had lately 
occupied the building. Doubtless some of the 
Continental soldiers had slept there the night 
just past. Great cobwebs hung in the corners 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


155 


and stretched across the shuttered casements 
through which pierced fine rays of dusty golden 
light. The brick floor had sunken in places, 
and in these spots puddles of water appeared 
and moss spread out greenly. 

Heyward marched his prisoner into the least 
conspicuous corner, and awaited further develop- 
ments. But as none came after what seemed 
an interminable period of inaction on his part, 
but which was in reality less than twenty 
minutes, he ventured to go to the front door, 
keeping a vigilant survey of his prisoner. 
As he expected, the tiny street was deserted. 
The one or two families inhabiting the place 
were Friends, and had barricaded themselves 
in their houses. Across the road walked a 
dog, carrying a hen it had just killed. Hey- 
ward spoke sharply, and the animal, dropping 
its prey, slunk off, its tail between its legs. 
Not daring to reveal himself uniformed as he 
was, at the risk of being seen by some chance 
observer, the young man ordered his compan- 
ion to step half-way outside the doorway and 
pick up the fowl. As the Quaker, obeying, 
drew back, several British who had climbed 
the hill appeared at the end of the road. 
Heyward caught a bare glimpse of them and 
realized that they in their turn must have had 
full view of the Quaker. Without a moment's 
hesitation, he ordered the fellow to stand half 
within the doorway, so that he himself, con- 


156 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


cealed from the street behind the closed half 
of the entrance, was still enabled to keep his 
prisoner under cover of his musket. He will- 
ingly ran the risk of discovery with Madem- 
oiselle’s buckle at stake and with an avenue of 
escape left open through the rear door of the 
church. The voices of the soldiers became 
distinct. 

“ ’Tis a fine place for a May-day picnic,” 
one man said jovially ; ‘‘but, beshrew me, com- 
rades, if ’tis not the rebels’ picnic this time. 
’Twould not be to my liking to be near His 
Lordship Howe in his present tantrum.” 

“ An’ did ye hear o’ the supper he is to 
give to-night ? ” chuckled another. “ Ha, ’tis 
poor relish he will have ! Eh, men, did ye 
not hear o’ his inviting the fine ladies to sup 
with the French stripling who’s to be shipped 
to England ? ” 

His words were greeted with a loud guffaw. 

“ Ho, ho, my pious friend,” continued the 
last speaker, who brought up the rear of the 
party and who glanced sharply at the Quaker. 
“Ye sent your news a little tardy. We should 
have arrived here before the break o’ day, that 
we might be on the rebels before they sighted 
us.” 

He burst into hearty laughter. 

“ Look ye, men, at the sly dog. While we 
went for the rebels, he made his capture at the 
chicken-coop. Ha, ha, the sly dog ! Give me 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


157 


a Quaker, I say, comrades, for preferring a full 
stomach and a lengthy prayer to glory/* 

' The Quaker essayed to answer, stuttering 
in his fear, the sweat running down his flabby 
face, his hand clutching convulsively the neck 
of the chicken. He felt the threat conveyed 
by the musket pressed against his side. Did 
he convey by word or sign the presence of 
his captor, he would be a dead man. Yet 
there was a fair chance, should he drop sud- 
denly to the ground or draw quickly aside 
and run. His captor, engrossed in his own 
escape, would not have time to deal ven- 
geance. But his will was paralyzed by terror. 
Cowardice bound him to the spot as securely 
as iron chains while his one opportunity van- 
ished. 

‘‘Ye missed a rare sight. Friend Broadbrim,** 
said another man. “ We chased some Indians 
to the river, and had a chance o* picking off 
a dozen or more as they swam across, their 
heads bobbing up and down like corks.** 

Heyward swore softly under his breath as 
he heard the news. 

One of the soldiers made a grab at the hen. 
But the Quaker clutched it desperately, as if 
on it hung his salvation. How far the mat- 
ter would have gone was not determined. A 
mounted officer, appearing from the opposite 
direction, called sharply to the laggards. He 
glanced at the Quaker and, recognizing him. 


158 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


nodded briefly, and, wheeling his horse around 
in front of the soldiers, ordered them to hasten. 

Some time elapsed before Heyward dared 
venture out into the street and go around the 
church corner into the grave-yard. In all the 
settlement there was no sign of human being, 
with the exception of himself and his prisoner. 
At the extreme further end of t^e little street, 
the dog they had seen sat in the middle of the 
dusty road observing their motions. 

As the young man had supposed, the buckle 
was found near the tombstone, bearing the 
inscription he had read during the previous 
night. He did not risk relaxing his vigilance 
of the Quaker by bending to pick up the 
buckle, but ordered him to do so, annoyed, 
however, at the necessity of having the trinket 
touched by profane hands. Then, keeping the 
man in front of him and keenly on the alert 
for any sign of the enemy, he descended the 
hill to where he had left his horse, leading 
the animal along the bridle path which wound 
circuitously through the thick copse to the 
river road. There he mounted and walked his 
horse briskly behind his prisoner. Within 
half an hour, he had reached the ford, where 
a sad sight met his eyes. There had been a 
skirmish at this point between some British and 
La Fayette's rear guard. Two of the British, 
several of the Continental soldiers, and three 
horses lay dead. 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


159 


On the further side of the river, when the 
two had crossed, the Quaker, who had slipped 
and fallen into the ford, stopped abruptly, re- 
fusing to advance further. He was dripping 
wet, and shaking as from fever. 


Chapter X 

H eyward perceived that the man was 
strung to the highest pitch of nervous 
excitement. His fear had become so 
great that a reaction ensued, making him well- 
nigh fearless in his desperation, and in a con- 
dition in which it was doubtful if he would 
hesitate at anything to regain his freedom. 
The young man armed and mounted though 
he was, felt that he stood in some personal 
danger unless he took advantage of his supe- 
rior position, and he had no desire to kill or 
injure the man. To murder a prisoner was 
one thing ; to deliver that prisoner safely over 
to honorable judgment, although death was as 
certain in the former as in the latter case, bore 
an entirely different aspect. 

‘‘ Roberts,'' he said, leaning forward in his 
intense earnestness, his finger on the trigger 
of his musket, ‘‘unless you go quietly, I will 
put a bullet through your leg and let you lie 
here until I can ride to camp for assistance 
to convey you there." 

For a moment it seemed as if the prisoner 
might fling himself at the speaker and drag 
him from his horse, defiant of the musket. 
In his mad and perhaps dying passion, should 

i6o 



f 

V' 






Mademoiselle de Berny 


i6i 


the young man fire, he would without doubt 
possess the almost superhuman strength of a 
last burst of frenzied rage, and struggle to kill 
his captor. But the fearless, compelling gaze, 
the unwavering threat of the musket cowed 
him. His muscles relaxed ; his figure lost the 
intensity of its pose ; his defiant expression 
gave way to a look of the utmost cunning and 
malignity. He laughed harshly and discord- 
antly, raising one huge hand from which the 
water still dripped, and which trembled in his 
helpless rage. 

“ So thou wouldst drive me like cattle be- 
fore thee,'* he cried, “ with thy musket at my 
back and the lash of thy whip curling around 
my ears. Ho, ho, thou wouldst have me 
to hang like a gallows dog ! How of the lad 
that will hang with me — the girl-faced brother 
of thy sharp-tongued Papist love ? 

A startled and appalled expression passed 
over Heyward's face, an expression quickly 
controlled, but not before the Quaker had 
observed it. 

“ Yea, thou wouldst see me swinging as a 
spy," he mocked, that thou and the rest of 
thy God-forsaken rebels might throw stones 
at me a-dangling with my feet off the ground. 
Thou and I have met before, so thou knowest 
I would put on no mask of hypocrisy with 
thee. But of the blind boy ? There wouldst 
thou have a pretty neck to snap. Pouf! a 

M 


i 62 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


twist o' the fingers, let alone the rope. A girl's 
neck — slim and white as the Papist woman's. 
Thinkest thou her tongue will not bite thee 
like vinegar for this morning's work ? " 

Heyward passed his hand mechanically 
across his eyes. He scarcely heard the man's 
words ; his face had grown careworn, and he 
looked white and exhausted ; the purple circles 
beneath his eyes where the blood had settled 
showed plainly. 

“ Go on," he said briefly. 

In his tone was the weariness and resigna- 
tion of one who has before heard the telling 
of a painful thing to which he is again forced 
to listen. In the Quaker's first reference to 
young Stirling, Heyward had divined the 
worst. There had been revealed to him at 
once the reason for the eccentric actions he had 
observed lately in Armand, and also came the 
solution of his wandering out into the rain a 
few nights back, and which he, his host, had 
laid to somnambulism. Whatever Roberts 
should say now he knew would be but tort- 
uring repetition of that which his thought had 
so instantly anticipated. 

“ 'Tis a short tale," said the Quaker, “ but 
one, I reckon, which will not be o'er sweet to 
thy ears. Dost thou remember thy last day in 
Philadelphia, when thou wast in the Green Tree 
coffee-house with the Papist Frenchwoman ? 
There was I a-slumber in the corner, with an 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


163 


eye half-cocked when I saw it was thou that 
entered, for I suspicioned thee, friend. Dost 
thou recall the letter thou lost ^ Yea, verily, 
it was given me to see it slip from thy pocket. 
Ho, ho, thou findest this not to thy liking ! 
Thy face grows red as a school-boy’s. Yet 
’twas a right sweet letter with thy cooings and 
thy avowals and thy entreaties. One would 
think thy soul’s salvation — ” 

“Well,” interrupted Heyward sharply. 

“The blind boy’s dog carried the letter to 
him. Then, after thy escape from Philadel- 
phia — for ’twas I reported thee to Lord 
Howe, gathering a hint of thy position from 
a word I overheard now and then when thou 
wast talking with thy fine lady — ’twas not 
my fault, friend, thou didst not swing that 
time ! I bethought myself of the letter and 
sought the boy. Eh, he can be seen through 
as glass with his pratings of his father and of 
war, and he bites at a line as a silly fish.” 

The sneer passed without comment. His 
listener found it impossible to speak, so out- 
raged was his sense of decency. Deep as his 
contempt had been for the Quaker, it hereto- 
fore possessed no personal element. But now 
the man’s baneful influence cast a shadow over 
that most sacred to him. The profound con- 
tempt before apparent in the young man’s 
glance changed to an expression of shrinking 
abhorrence and active personal dislike. No 


164 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


longer was he invulnerable to the maliciousness 
of this creature he despised. Now was the 
position of captor and prisoner an ironical 
paradox, for each was at the mercy of the other. 
Their eyes met understandingly for some 
seconds. Then the shifty eyes of the Quaker 
drooped to conceal the cunning triumph which 
had flashed into them, but as he next spoke 
his voice had gained a confident ring. 

‘‘Thou canst not deny the truth,’' he cried, 
“although thou regardest me as a cur to be 
spurned by thy foot. Thou seest how simple 
the trick. To reseal the letter and send the 
boy to return it to thee. Yea, thou eatest 
thine own words, friend, and I hope the dish 
relisheth thee. Thus saith the lad to me, 
chuckling, ‘ Heyward meant not his words for 
me that afternoon. But he will learn I am no 
child that he talketh over my head ! ’ Thou 
seest how simple the plan. A blind boy, — 
one of the Lord’s afflicted, — what man sus- 
picioneth him, hey ? Thou shouldst know of 
thine own experience how easy a thing oft falls 
which seemeth difficult. ’Twas but the hoot- 
ing of an owl at night. This signal the lad 
would hear and follow. My bones ache yet, so 
cramped was I a-waiting in the night dew, lying 
low against the ground.” 

“ How could he pass the sentry to you ? ” 
asked Heyward, with a singular quietness of 
voice that was quite distinct from the trouble 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


165 


of his pale set face. He recalled an errand 
which had caused him to return unexpectedly 
to his quarters, to find his self-invited guest 
seated writing at the table. It was the morn- 
ing of the day on which Mademoiselle de 
Berny arrived at the encampment. Again he 
saw the fair yellow head, bright in the gloom 
of the hut, moving unconsciously in unison 
with the stiff painful movements of the hand 
guiding the pen. He remembered that the 
lad had laid down his pen and waited until 
his host left the hut, the Great Dane rising 
and following him to the door and then turn- 
ing and going back to his master. Heyward 
raised his hand imperatively, checking the an- 
swer to his question. 

I think I understand,” he said slowly, 
“ the message was written on a piece of paper 
and given to the dog who conveyed it to you. 
Such a messenger the sentry would not suspect.” 

“ Yea,” said the Quaker, ‘‘ the animal com- 
prehends its master's wish as a human soul.” 
Something akin to admiration was in his cun- 
ning gaze as he perceived the quick compre- 
hension of the plot Heyward showed, and an 
added shade of insolence came into his man- 
ner, seeming to assert that it was he, and not 
his captor, who had the superior position. 

“ How feelest thou, now, friend,” he asked, 
wouldst thou now drive me into the rebels' 
camp.?* What would thy high and mighty 


i66 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


Papist love say to thee ? The boy is the 
apple of her eye, around which all her vanities 
centre, seeing not the Lord in her love of 
what is mortal.” 

There was a momentary silence. Heyward 
was looking at the man with eyes which saw 
him not ; but Mademoiselle’s face, her beau- 
tiful face, pale, agonized, formed itself in the 
air before him with the gaze of one mortally 
wounded. He heard her voice, grief-stricken, 
reproachful, its tone cutting his heart as a 
knife. He groaned, so sharp, so real was the 
pain. 

“ Thinkest thou she would speak to thee 
gently ? ” said the Quaker. 

The sneer aroused the young man, recall- 
ing him to the present. He straightened 
himself stiffly in the saddle as one who, hav- 
ing had a blow, holds himself rigidly against 
the shock of a second. His will indomitable 
showed in the set lines of his face. 

Roberts,” he said, in a tone absolutely 
unrelenting, ‘‘we will have no more words. 
Walk ahead of me now at a brisk pace, for 
we are losing time. If you refuse to do so, 
or attempt to escape, I will put a bullet through 
you.” 

The answering words died on the prisoner’s 
lips, as he realized the futility of any appeal to 
the inexorable will which commanded him to 
proceed. Yet he hesitated, still defiant, al- 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


167 


though once more, half-paralyzed by dread, 
mumbling threats mingled with entreaties, pro- 
testing his innocence, showing himself an abject, 
miserable creature, whining his late repentance 
in one breath, with the next indulging in 
foolish threats. 

At last Heyward's self-control gave way 
before the wave of passionate contempt and 
loathing which surged up in his heart. 

“You dog!" he cried, “do you think I 
have forgotten the innocent country people 
cast into prison at your bare suggestion when 
you guarded the city entrances ? What of our 
suffering prisoners in Philadelphia, of the day 
you kicked the bowl of food from a starving 
soldier, of the money wrung with promise of 
food — a promise you broke! And of the 
boy, the boy flogged to death between you 
and that devil, Cunningham ! Have you for- 
gotten — " he paused. 

As swiftly as the fierce swirl of wind which 
rises and dies down before the brooding storm, 
so did his anger vanish almost as quickly as it 
appeared. Behind his sudden gust of passion 
was the mournful thought of Mademoiselle. 
Well he knew that his last words were but the 
cry of his conscience against the temptation to 
let the Quaker go free. 

“ Roberts," he said, in a voice lifeless in 
tone, “ will you go on ? " He waited with 
a curious patience, as the prisoner again gave 


i68 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


way to another ebullition of feeling. The 
man, exhausting himself at last in his rage, and 
realizing his powerlessness to influence his 
captor, turned with a desperate fling of his 
body in the direction he was ordered to take, 
and walked on. His religious training betrayed 
itself now in his stress of emotion, and he 
muttered broken snatches of psalms, his voice 
rising at times to a monotonous sing-song. 
In his fear, his reasoning power and his keener 
consciousness of suffering were passive, lost 
in the absorption of a fanatical condition of 
mind. 

That awful and desolate journey left a never- 
to-be-forgotten impression on Heyward's mind. 
There were less than six miles to be travelled 
before Valley Forge could be reached, but to 
him those miles stretched on endlessly. The 
greater part of the road lay through meadows 
or along the river. There was no shade to 
protect them from the burning rays of the 
sun. The day had developed into one of 
those insufferably warm spring days which 
seem more like August than May weather. 

Once the Quaker, who had unconsciously 
retained the chicken in his grasp, dropped 
it. Heyward halted, and required him to 
pick it up, taking it from him and placing 
it across his saddle. The action as well as 
the thought prompting it was mechanical. In 
an army which had well-nigh reached starva- 


.Mademoiselle de Berny 


169 


tlon, economy had become instinctive among 
the soldiers. 

The beauty of the landscape seemed a mock- 
ery to the young man : the sunny blue sky, 
the green meadows, the singing of the river, 
filled him with a kind of horror. In the 
Quaker’s heavy drab figure plodding on 
doggedly before him, and becoming confused 
dizzily at times in his sight with the white 
dusty road, he saw only the embodiment of 
sorrow and shame he was driving into the 
presence of the woman he loved. He lost 
sight of the personality of the man who, to 
his tortured gaze, took on the semblance of 
some huge, evil thing, which he, by a relent- 
less fate, was driven to pursue, and for whose 
appearance he was responsible. He felt him- 
self in the grasp of a temptation to resist which 
was a mortal struggle. The Quaker’s evil 
machinations had come to naught — the army 
he sought to destroy had escaped. To retain 
him meant that Armand, also, would be ar- 
rested as a spy. And Mademoiselle, what 
justice in her suffering ? Yet he remernbered 
the innocent country people cast into prison 
at the mere suggestion of the man who was 
now his prisoner. He could not banish the 
thought of the suffering of the American 
prisoners. Again he saw the emaciated bodies 
of the ragged Continental soldiers, lying dead 
at the ford he had just passed. Their blood 


170 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


called for vengeance. And as for Mademoi- 
selle — bitterly, bitterly was he proving to her 
that the soldier ranked before the lover, that 
his country was more than she. But, how- 
ever his heart cried out against his reso- 
lution, it was typical of the man that he 
should not falter in carrying out what he be- 
lieved to be his duty. With the exception of 
when he had taken the chicken from the 
Quaker, he had not checked his horse in its 
steady gait, nor in any wise had he hesitated. 
He had put his hand to the plough, and he 
would not turn back, although it passed over 
his happiness and that of the woman he loved. 
Word by word, in torturing reminiscence, did 
that eventful conversation in the coffee-house 
return to him.^ The principles of honor and 
right he had so earnestly espoused brought 
forth fruit of deceit and shame. The instinct 
of fear in Mademoiselle de Berny’s heart, 
when her brother had echoed Heyward’s sen- 
timents, had been a true one. Intuitively had 
she surmised danger to the lad. In a new 
light Heyward viewed his position. Not for 
himself, as far as he was personally concerned, 
nor for others strong enough to live by the 
individual conscience, was the iron law of right 
and wrong governing the masses to be kept. 
But it must be kept for the sake of those 
weaker human children whose feet would 
stumble in following the dangerous path which 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


171 


their stronger brethren passed in safety. For 
Armand's actions was he largely responsible, 
and Mademoiselle de Berny would most justly 
consider him so. Yet now he felt that he 
could see neither right nor wrong clearly, nor 
did he feel that he should hesitate again, were 
it necessary for him once more to enact the 
role which his country had demanded of him 
in Philadelphia. But for Diane’s sake, for her 
sake, his heart cried out to let the Quaker 

As he neared Valley Forge his feeling of 
loathing and self-disgust strengthened. In his 
position as it must show to Mademoiselle de 
Berny there was nothing of dignity nor heroisni. 
Even his suffering seemed mean and ignoble, 
so petty was his duty. First had she seen him 
a spy, had known of his flight from Phila- 
delphia. In thought he suffered anew from 
her scorn. And now, not only must he en- 
counter her contempt again, but he must carry 
suffering and shame to her. He closed his 
eyes involuntarily for a moment, his heart 
sickening at the sight of the encampment 
lying desolate and exposed to the glaring sun- 
rays. The insignificant village of huts lay like 
a blot on the smiling landscape. Squads of 
men were being drilled in the surrounding 
fields. On all sides were to be seen disfigur- 
ing stumps of trees which had been cut down 
for firewood. 


172 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


He passed inside the picket line with his 
prisoner, and took a road leading directly to 
the guard-house, in the hope of avoiding a 
chance meeting and consequent questioning of 
any officer until he had imprisoned the Quaker 
and had seen General Washington in reference 
to young Stirling, whose unfortunate ambition 
had placed him in such dangerous circumstances. 
He hoped that the lad, owing to his youth and 
infirmity, might be returned to Philadelphia 
before any accusation could be made against 
him. 

But he was not permitted to convey his 
prisoner quietly to the guard-house. As he 
proceeded, he saw that it would be necessary 
to pass a group of soldiers who were off duty 
and in whose midst he saw the fair head and 
slender form of Armand. Dreading above all 
a meeting between his prisoner and his accom- 
plice, he ordered the man to halt, while he 
glanced around him preparatory to turning off 
abruptly from the road and crossing through 
a belt of scant woods. But several of the 
group had recognized the Quaker and hastened 
forward. Two of these, who were among the 
first to advance, were men who had been pris- 
oners at Philadelphia and had been exchanged. 
The rest of the men followed leisurely, idly 
curious as to the cause of the curses and bitter 
taunts which their two comrades showered upon 
the Quaker. 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


173 


Heyward silenced them, however, by a sharp 
command. The last to approach was young 
Stirling, his hand on his hound’s head, his face 
turned toward the man with whom he was 
walking. 

He was talking and laughing gayly. His 
companion was the tall soldier with the vacant 
and foolish expression Mademoiselle de Berny 
had noticed the evening of her arrival at Valley 
Forge. This man followed the boy around 
with a dog-like fidelity. The two were some 
little way behind the rest, walking slowly down 
the road. The breeze blew the tattered uniform 
and unkempt hair of the soldier. The sun- 
light fell on the red heart pinned upon his 
broad breast. He was nodding his head as 
if striving to assent intelligently to the boy’s 
words, and this effort in connection with his 
gentle, foolish smile was pitiable. As the two 
approached, the Quaker, who was surrounded 
by a jeering crowd, burst into a torrent of 
angry imprecations, his maliciousness directed 
toward Heyward rather than the boy whose 
appearance had been the touchstone to his 
wrath. 

“ Thou wouldst see another spy, hey ? Seest 
thou his girl-face And the dog ? Yea, thou 
shouldst string up the animal also. Verily, it 
was he that fetched and carried. Another gal- 
lows-dog ! ” he cried with a discordant laugh, 
another gallows-dog, I say ! ” 


174 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


Young Stirling did not recognize the voice, 
so distorted was it by passion. He made his 
way swiftly through the little group with 
troubled face. On reaching Roberts he put 
out his hand and passed it over his face. 
Infuriated beyond reason, goaded past control 
by the soft and delicate touch, to a condition 
more animal than human, the Quaker seized the 
gentle hand and bit it. 

H is face deathly pale, Heyward, who was 
still mounted, brought his whip down on the 
fellow’s head and shoulders, who put up his 
arms in a vain effort to ward off the blows, but 
was too thoroughly cowed to make any great 
resistance. 

From the surrounding soldiers rose an angry 
murmur. One man, he who had been a pris- 
oner in Philadelphia, kicked the prisoner, curs- 
ing him as he did so. Heyward seized the 
man by his shoulder and pushed him vigor- 
ously aside. Then he swung himself down 
from his horse and handed the reins to the 
soldier he had just reprimanded. Following 
the Quaker’s attack young Stirling had been 
silent for several minutes. Suddenly he raised 
his wounded hand and pointed at the prisoner. 

I know you ! ” he cried shrilly, ‘‘ I know 
you ! I know your voice ! ” 

Heyward commanded the men to take the 
reins of his horse and bind the prisoner’s 
hands. With the exception of the quick burst 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


175 


of anger the moment before, he remained the 
only composed member of the group. 

“ Why dost thou let him go free ? ” cried 
Roberts, as he was roughly bound. ‘‘Was't 
not he that sent word to the British by me ? 
Is it for his girl-face and slim neck thou lettest 
him alone ? 

“ I have no wish to go free,'' cried the boy 
haughtily. I am no liar to deny my act, you 
dog! Neither have I a girl's face I Did you 
think to force me into telling lest I should 
creep out ? His Excellency shall have you 
whipped for your presumption, fellow," threat- 
ened the boy, with his face burning. 

Dumbfounded, loath to believe his self- 
accusation, doubting not that he had been 
suddenly struck with madness, the soldiers ex- 
changed astonished and pitying glances. 

Heyward sought to silence the boy's shrill 
talking, in the vain hope that he might protect 
him from arrest for the present were he able 
to get the Quaker away quietly. But Roberts 
was still in a frenzy of r^ge and terror. 

‘‘ Thou darest not let him go," he cried ; 
“ he, too, is a spy, a spy by his own confession." 

The young officer now saw no escape from 
his enforced duty of putting the boy under 
arrest. Still he made one last effort. Did 
Armand deny the accusation, he was confident 
that the Quaker's words would be counted but 
malicious lies by the surrounding men. Yet 


176 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


his heart sank as he saw the suspicious glances 
cast upon the boy. There was little mercy to 
be hoped for from these hard, stern men once 
they learned they had been betrayed. 

He commanded silence by an imperativ^e 
gesture. His eyes challenged any disturbance 
as his gaze swept the lowering, suspicious faces. 
Then he turned and placed his hand on the 
boy's shoulder. 

“Armand," he said, in his singularly quiet 
voice, is the accusation made against you by 
Roberts false ? " 

‘‘No," he answered sullenly, “it was I — I 
who sent a message to the British by this fel- 
low that the rebels were going to Barren Hill." 

“ Then," continued Heyward, his cold glance 
silencing the angry imprecations of the soldiers, 
“ I place you under arrest to await your trial." 

The boy stood quietly while his hands were 
bound. The crazed soldier moved closely to 
him. The foolish, gentle smile was troubled. 
The Great Dane, growling angrily, watched the 
man tying his master s wrists, and it required 
but a signal for him to spring at his throat. 

“Armand," said Heyward very gently, “you 
must be patient and we will try to get you out 
of this. Hand me his sword," he said, raising 
his voice to address the soldier who, in com- 
pliance with military discipline, had removed 
all weapons from the prisoners. Taking it, 
the young officer buckled it around the owner. 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


177 


The lad's heart was throbbing violently, as 
some prisoned bird beating itself to death 
against the bars ; his thought was not of his 
being made a prisoner ; he accepted the fact 
naturally with no comprehension of his danger. 
But the wound in his hand was torturing him 
with anger and humiliation. Until now he 
had never received harsh word nor blow. He 
felt that the shame of his injured hand was 
killing him. It was unspeakable degradation 
to him. In his agony it seemed to him that 
he must burst asunder the thongs confining 
his wrists, and throw himself on the ground. 
Yet he felt the hilt of his sword press against 
his side, and the touch comforted him. He 
raised his head, a light of exaltation transfigured 
his blind face, and his lips moved in a whisper. 
His expression was that of addressing some 
one. A great pity and gentleness came into 
Heyward's face. 

My dear lad," he commenced, and then 
turned abruptly and remounted his horse, for 
between his and Armand's face had risen a 
vision of Mademoiselle de Berny. As fie was 
about to give the command to move on, an 
aide-de-camp of General Washington's rode 
up and handed him a message, requesting his 
immediate presence at headquarters. The com- 
mand could not be disregarded. He knew it 
referred to certain knowledge he had obtained 
of the British tactics while in Philadelphia. 


178 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


Reluctantly, he consigned the prisoners to 
a subordinate, with a stern injunction to per- 
mit no rudeness to be passed upon them. 
Then, with a last word to Armand, he wheeled 
his horse around and rode towards headquar- 
ters. 


Chapter XI 


A LITTLE later in the morning, Mad- 
emoiselle de Berny returned with Lady 
Washington from a round of visits to 
sick soldiers. But before she ascended the 
stairs to her room, she went around the house 
to the kitchen to leave there a basket of 
eggs which her companion had purchased of a 
farmer’s boy who had come into camp with 
eggs and fresh vegetables. As she left Lady 
Washington at the front entrance and turned 
the corner of the house, she saw Richard 
Heyward dismount from his horse and give 
it in charge of a negro attendant at the side 
door which opened into His Excellency’s pri- 
vate office. She paused, half-smiling, em- 
barrassed to advance, yet reluctant to turn 
back without a word from him. The young 
officer’s eyes dwelt miserably on the charming 
figure in the shadow of the vine-clad wall, 
with its pretty affectation of domesticity, the 
brocaded skirt of her gown turned up from 
her petticoat and pinned around her waist to 
protect the rich material ; the great basket of 
eggs heavy for the girlish arms. Of the wife 
of the Quaker preacher whose home had been 
made the headquarters. Mademoiselle de Berny 

179 


i8o 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


had borrowed a poke bonnet of gray shirred 
cloth. Like a picture in a frame seemed her 
face with the ribbons tied in a bow under the 
chin. In her growing embarrassment beneath 
the young man’s gaze, - her face was suffused 
with color. 

“ Monsieur,” she said softly, her eyes bright 
with laughter, despite an underlying shyness, 
‘‘ my basket is very heavy.” 

Heyward, comprehending that she had ad- 
dressed him, yet in his agony of mind not 
taking in the sense of her words, raised his 
hat with a profound and abstracted bow, his 
only thought one of bitterness at the contrast 
between the bright face and the crushing blow 
ready to fall upon her. He opened the door 
of General Washington’s office and went in. 

Mademoiselle de Berny finished her errand 
to the kitchen, and ascended the stairs to her 
room greatly perplexed and worried. She had 
instinctively divined that Heyward’s curious 
and restrained manner had not sprung from 
indifference nor anger towards herself, but was 
rather the result of some deep trouble from 
which he saw no hope of extricating himself. 
She felt that his anxious glance concerned her- 
self, and her thought flashed to Armand with 
an unaccountable prescience of evil. Her 
heart throbbed suffocatingly. As if drawn by 
some curious fatality she moved restlessly to 
the casement of her apartment, forgetting to 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


i8i 


remove her bonnet or unpin her gown. Down 
the road which passed the house, she saw a 
crowd of some thirty men, — negroes and sol- 
diers, — and a mounted officer. The sight was 
not uncommon and she turned away. She sat 
down on the little bed and began untying the 
strings of her bonnet, struggling against a 
desire to go in search of her brother. The 
tears came to her eyes. 

Oh, Armand,'’ she murmured, ‘‘ why will 
you not stay with me ? Why will you not ? 

Obeying an unconscious impulse, she rose 
and went again to the casement. The crowd 
she had discerned a few moments since had 
now drawn sufficiently near for her to distin- 
guish the faces, the recognition of some of 
which overcame her with a deadly sickness, so 
that she fell on her knees by the casement, her 
hands clutching the sill. 

She saw her brother under a guard of 
soldiers, who hurried him along roughly. His 
hands were tied behind him and he was bare- 
headed. At his heels the Great Dane followed 
growling. Striving to make his way to the 
boy through the intervening men was the 
crazed soldier, his tall frame overtowering 
the rest. The foolish smile was gone, and in his 
wild and mournful face some last intelligence 
struggled for the mastery. His face was un- 
dyingly stamped on Mademoiselle de Berny’s 
memory, as her appalled gaze passed on from 


I 82 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


him to the huge figure at her brother’s side, 
and she saw the Quaker Roberts she had met 
on her way to Valley Forge. 

He was crying like a woman, his spectacles 
all blurred with tears, so that for lack of seeing 
he stumbled constantly. But young Stirling 
stepped proudly, his head held high, his face 
white, save for a burning spot of color on either 
cheek. So exalted was his expression that he 
seemed to be smiling. The sunlight shone 
brightly on his fair disordered hair. On all 
sides arose taunts and curses. Owing to the 
intense excitement of the early morning when 
La Fayette had so narrowly escaped being 
taken by the enemy at Valley Forge, an air of 
restlessness still pervaded the encampment, and 
a general reaction had ensued, admitting of a 
certain relaxation for a time from the usual 
severe military discipline. 

Under these circumstances only could the 
crowd have grown to be the considerable size 
it now presented. Several negroes and some 
camp idlers as well as one mounted officer and 
a number of other men off duty had joined the 
original group of soldiers. 

The guard conducting the prisoners had 
turned into the very road which Heyward had 
sought to avoid taking, but unfortunately, in 
the young man’s troubled state of mind, he 
had forgotten to order otherwise. The bitter- 
ness dormant in the hearts of the half-starved 


Mademoiselle de Berny 183 

patriots had awakened to fierce life when the 
cause of the failure of the expedition to Valley 
Forge became known. They had been betrayed 
by spies in camp. Young Stirling turned his 
head neither to the left nor to the right, as if 
he heard not the jeering cries of ‘‘ Spy ! ” nor 
the curses of men whose hospitality he had 
betrayed. Over the rough road he was hur- 
ried, and he slipped and fell when still several 
rods from headquarters. As he half rose, his 
clothing spattered with mud, a great bruise 
appearing on his face, helpless to see or to use 
his hands, one of the guard prodded him 
with his bayonet, and a stone flung at the 
Quaker missed the intended aim and struck 
his shoulder, knocking him down again. Then 
it was that Mademoiselle de Berny’s anguish 
found vent in a long and bitter cry — a cry so 
exceeding bitter coming from such an unex- 
pected direction that the guard involuntarily 
turned to look for its origin. 

A moment later Mademoiselle de Berny 
had rushed down the stairs, out of the door, 
and into the street, . making her way imperi- 
ously to her brother’s side. 

“Armand! Armand! I am here,” she cried, 
assisting him to rise. The Quaker, taking ad- 
vantage of the momentary pause during which 
attention was directed toward his fellow-pris- 
oner and his sister, slipped the leathern bonds 
confining his wrists. In another instant he 


184 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


was struggling for his life with the guard. His 
expression was one to appall the stoutest heart. 
If the sight of her brother falling a moment 
since had fired Mademoiselle’s heart, the scene 
she now witnessed froze her blood. For, al- 
though the tears were rolling down the Quaker’s 
face, his complexion had taken on a greenish 
hue, and his upper lip curling back from his 
teeth revealed no human passion, but the 
ferocity of the tiger. Adding to the horror of 
the scene was the attitude taken by the crazed 
soldier, who, roused to an insane frenzy by the 
excitement, was engaging in the combat on the 
Quaker’s side. 

The guard, not daring to fire on account 
of the crowd, had resource to their bayonets. 
Then ensued a tragic incident. The insane 
soldier, his arms outstretched as if he would 
embrace death, flung himself violently against 
one bayonet, which pierced his breast. The 
second’s hesitation of horror following the act 
was the Quaker’s salvation. His escape, as 
he wrenched himself free, was so unexpected, 
that for a stupefied moment all were silent, 
watching him as he ran across the green field 
toward the woods like the huge, gray shadow 
of some evil thing fleeing the bright sun- 
light. 

Then the crowd broke and ran, the guard 
leading, shouting and firing as they moved. 
The officer on horseback quickly distanced 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


185 


the other pursuers, and nearing the prisoner, 
checked his horse and commanded him to halt. 
But before the officer had time to fire, the 
Quaker had turned desperately and flung at him, 
dragged him from his horse by an almost super- 
human strength, and then mounted in his place, 
ducking to escape the rain of bullets. Another 
moment and he entered the cover of the woods. 

Mademoiselle de Berny knelt at the side 
of the dead soldier, pitifully staunching the 
blood flowing from the wound in his breast 
with her handkerchief, heedless of the fact 
that the glazing eyes and the silent heart re- 
vealed the futility of her effort. She closed 
the eyes and crossed the helpless hands over 
the gaunt chest. At that moment her thought 
was not of herself nor of her brother, but of 
the mystery of life and death. Of the troops 
who had returned that day, all were unscathed 
with some few exceptions. This soldier, re- 
maining in camp, had met a terrible death — 
had been stricken down in the twinkling of 
an eye. Verily, the one shall be taken and 
the other left. 

She became conscious of her brother calling 
her name over and over again, and, rising, 
she went to him and drew his shamed head 
down on her breast, standing with both arms 
around him as the soldiers closed in upon them. 

How the remainder of that day and the 
ensuing night passed, she scarcely knew. Her 


i86 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


consciousness was dazed, and she felt as one 
striving to awaken from a ghastly dream — 
a nightmare in which the will, powerless in 
the chains of sleep, cannot control the tort- 
ured imagination. She realized dimly the con- 
sideration and sympathy accorded , her by 
General and Lady Washington and those 
other officers and their wives whom she had 
met at Valley Forge. Richard Heyward she 
had not seen, save the glimpse she caught of 
him in the great crowd which had gathered, 
following the Quaker’s escape. By the next 
morning she had recovered from the lethargic 
condition into which the shock had thrown her. 
She had risen early and dressed, and, not wait- 
ing to partake of any breakfast, had gone to her 
brother. Military discipline did not permit her 
to enter the building, nor to hold any communi- 
cation with a spy. She was allowed, however, 
to seat herself near the entrance of the guard- 
house in which her brother was imprisoned. 
He was sleeping on a bed of straw, the straw 
partly concealed by a blanket thrown over it. 
He had laid down without undressing, and his 
body had the relaxed and motionless posture 
of one sleeping the sleep of utter exhaustion. 
One of the soldiers guarding him carried in 
his breakfast, which consisted of corn bread 
and coffee sweetened with molasses. He laid 
it on the floor beside the prisoner, whose 
heavy sleep was not to be disturbed, although 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


187 


the guard spoke in rough kindness, bidding 
him awaken and eat. 

At Mademoiselle de Berny’s request the 
soldier took her cloak and spread it over the 
sleeper, who had no covering. The sober, 
brown hue of the garment seemed to add a 
tone of sadness and depression to the cheer- 
less interior. A square of golden sunlight fell 
through the open doorway and cast Mademoi- 
selle de Berny’s shadow on the hard earth 
floor. The Great Dane lay beside his mas- 
ter, his head on his paws, his intelligent eyes 
ever watchful. Once he rose and walked over 
to the young girl and licked her hand with a 
low whine. Then he went back and lay down 
in his former position, raising his head to 
whine again as one who would proclaim that 
there he stationed himself a faithful watch. 

Mademoiselle de Berny turned her face 
away and looked down the forest road, be- 
yond the encampment to where she could see 
the purple sweep of far-off hills. To her wistful 
eyes that dreamy outline seemed to mark a fair 
country, where the future smiled elusively and 
faintly beyond the present reality. 

Inside the hut the sleeper turned restlessly, 
drawing a long, quivering breath. After a mo- 
ment he raised himself on his elbow and drew 
his sword from its sheath. 

‘‘ Diane,’' he called sharply, half-awake and 
frowning, what was that ? ” 


i88 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


“You are dreaming, Armand,” she said. 

Assured by the sound of her voice, he lay 
down again. She felt bitter resentment at 
the sight of the bru!ise upon his face. But 
for the slight movement of his chest in breath- 
ing, he seemed as one dead. His lids were 
transparently blue and not quite closed, as 
in the case of people dangerously ill. On 
his left cheek and temple the veins showed 
distinctly as some purple tracery drawn by the 
finger of Death. He lay now on his back, one 
arm outstretched stiffly, with the hand grasp- 
ing his father’s sword. The blade rested on 
the hound’s back and made a line of silver 
light. There was an odd pathos in his atti- 
tude, as if he had dreamed of assassination and 
drawn his sword in fear. It was nearly an hour 
before he again awakened. Then he sat up on 
the bed and leant against the wall, flinging the 
cloak laid over him on the floor. He was 
smiling. 

“Diane,” he said. The habit of taking her 
presence for granted had become instinctive. 

“Yes, dear,” she said. 

He turned his amused face towards her. 

“We British didn’t make much out of it, 
after all, Diane, although word was sent in 
time, I know. As Uncle Henry says, these 
rebel dogs are shrewd. Nevertheless, we 
served that young Frenchman a rare trick. 
’Twas up the hill and down again for him.” 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


189 


He rose and returned his sword to its sheath, 
and as he did so she saw that his left hand was 
bound up in his handkerchief. 

“Ah, Diane,” he cried, with a triumphant 
toss of his head, “you will not laugh at me 
again for a little boy. It was I — I who sent 
word to the British. You said we were naught 
but bickering English, and I thought you*d be 
sorry for it some day.” 

She looked at him in dumb amazement. 

He, pausing a moment for her reply, con- 
tinued as she did not speak. 

“ I heard what you and Major Heyward said 
at the Green Tree coffee-house that day. You 
forget how 1 always hear things. But where 
are you ?” he said impatiently, groping for her. 

“ I am here outside the doorway,” she re- 
plied sadly. “They will not allow me to 
come in to you, Armand.” 

He frowned. “They’ll remember this some 
day,” he said haughtily. “ But as I was say- 
ing,” he continued, his face clearing as he 
seated himself again on his bed, and drew his 
hound’s head against him, “as I was saying, 
you forgot my sharp ears that day. My father 
said the good God gave me my sense of hear- 
ing in place of sight.” 

Mademoiselle de Berny cried out bitterly, 
“ Oh, Armand, God has punished you, inas- 
much as you have used his good gift to your 
dishonor and mine ! ” 


190 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


“You don’t understand,*' he said crossly, 
“war is not as women think. Do you think 
I did not know that day when they were hunt- 
ing Major Heyward that you were wondering 
who had told on him ? I tried not to laugh 
when you spoke as if I knew nothing. But 
you can never fool me, Diane, although I am 
blind ! ” 

With a cry, his listener put her hands over 
her face. One of the guard, his attention at- 
tracted by the sound, came over and looked in 
the hut, glancing sharply at Mademoiselle de 
Berny. But he saw nothing to confirm his 
suspicions, and rejoined his companions, who 
lounged smoking and jesting on the ground 
within earshot of any conversation passing be- 
tween the prisoner and his sister. Mademoi- 
selle de Berny, her face buried in her hands, 
had not observed the incident. Her very soul 
was shamed and sickened by her brother’s 
words. 

Young Stirling discovered his breakfast and 
commenced eating hungrily. Now and then 
he fed his hound pieces of the corn bread. 
He continued chatting to his sister. She, in 
her painful thought, heard his words vaguely, 
comprehending but dimly their significance. 
As she looked at him again she was startled by 
the impression his face conveyed to her. His 
profile was turned towards her, and the re- 
markable resemblance between them was for 


Mademoiselle de Berny 191 

the moment so great that she seemed to be 
looking at herself, and not at the brother she 
worshipped. Curiously enough she had no 
consciousness of Armand’s personality as seen 
in that subtle and self-assured profile. It bore 
no reference to him whatever, but expressed 
her own arrogance and selfishness. It recalled 
to her instantly her attitude of mind during 
her last ride with General Stirling on the event- 
ful afternoon when Heyward had betrayed his 
position to her in the Green Tree coffee-house, 
and she saw herself scornful of him in her own 
righteousness, uttering things the reverse of 
generous in her wounded love and vanity. In 
contrast there rose in memory the good, hon- 
est face of her adopted uncle ; she heard his 
gruff but kindly voice, uttering words which 
made no impression then on her complacent 
self-esteem. Now those sentences returned to 
pierce her heart with shame, and she shrank 
from recalling his gruff rebuke for light, vain 
words, which damned ; his honest scorn of her 
hinting at another’s dishonor. For the first 
time since her departure from Philadelphia she 
thought of the anxiety General Stirling must 
experience, of her lack of consideration of his 
double worry in the absence of both herself 
and her brother. With humiliation she re- 
membered her outspoken desire to go in search 
of her brother, her secret wish to see once more 
Richard Heyward. Frank and generous was 


192 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


her action on the surface, but beneath had lurked 
self-gratification. 

Armand's voice suddenly took a pitiful, com- 
plaining tone which roused her from her reverie. 
He came to the doorway and held out his left 
hand, as if calling attention to the handkerchief 
which concealed a wound. Ah, how his atti- 
tude recalled those days when a little child he 
had turned to her when hurt, holding up his 
face or his tiny hand to be kissed ! 

“ Oh, Armand,’’ she cried, “ he escaped ! 
But you — you — ” 

‘‘They will not hang me, Diane,'’ he said 
quickly, comprehending her unuttered thought. 

She only moaned in reply. 

‘‘They will not dare hang me," he cried, 
frightened and defiant. “ General Washington 
will exchange me for one of his own men whom 
the British have imprisoned. Go, tell His Ex- 
cellency that my father was a soldier, a soldier 
of the King, and that his son must not be 
hanged. It was not fair for Heyward to arrest 
me. He might have pretended he did not 
know. He found out from Roberts what I 
was doing here and he arrested me. Diane, 
you go and tell him to take it back. He could 
get me away at night without any one knowing, 
if His Excellency will not exchange me. I 
could wear his uniform, and he could give me 
the password." 

She rose. He, hearing the rustle of her 


Mademoiselle de Berny , 193 


gown, thought she was about to leave him. 
He stepped quickly outside the hut and flung 
his arms around her neck. 

“ Diane,'' he sobbed, ‘‘ don't leave me. I 
am afraid." 

One of the guards came forward and was 
about to separate them, but the expression of 
Mademoiselle's face checked him. Full of 
pain, there was an imperious entreaty in her 
glance which silenced the man, so that he drew 
back among his fellows with an involuntary 
half-spoken apology. 

“ Diane," said the boy in a whisper, send 
these men away. Don’t let them hang me. 
Tell them that I am blind.” 

Yes, yes, sweetheart," she whispered, ‘‘they 
shall not hurt you. No one shall hurt you." 

He pressed his cheek closer to hers, tighten- 
ing his arm around her neck; his fear was 
quieted immediately at her assurances. 

‘‘ You will go and tell His Excellency, 
Diane ? ” he murmured coaxingly ; “ yes, you 
will go now, won't you P Tell him I am 
blind." 

She could not speak, only drawing him 
closer to her. He raised his head from her 
shoulder. 

“ Hark ! ” he said. 

Mademoiselle de Berny and the soldiers, fol- 
lowing the gaze of his sightless eyes as he 
turned his head in the direction from which 


194 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


the sound proceeded, saw several French sol- 
diers lounging in front of their quarters some 
distance down the road. The sound of their idle 
singing arose cheerily. The words and music 
were those of an old and famous chansonnette. 

“Essuyez vos beaux yeux. 

Madame de Longueville, 

Essuyez vos beaux yeux, 

Coligny se porte mieux — ** 

“ Hark, Diane ! ” whispered the boy. 

“SiM demande la vie 
Ne Ten blamez nullement 
Car c^est pour etre votre amant 
Qu^il veut vivre eternellement.** 

The boy’s head was nodding in time to the 
music. His voice rippled spontaneously into 
the chorus. 

** Essuyez vos beaux yeux, 

Madame de Longueville.” 

One of the French soldiers made the sign 
of the cross, as the language of his country 
voiced in the piercingly sweet, and, for the 
moment, mysterious tones came to the hear- 
ing of himself and his fellows. 

“ It is a voice from heaven,” he said. Higher 
and sweeter rang out the silvery voice. 

“Car c’est pour votre amant 
Qu’il veut vivre eternellement 
Essuyez vos beaux yeux ! 

Essuyez vos beaux yeux ! ” 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


195 


Young Stirling had dropped his arm from 
his sister’s shoulder, and with his head flung 
back was singing as one who would sing his 
heart away. But Mademoiselle de Berny was 
sobbing bitterly. 


Chapter XII 

S OME hours later she went to General 
Washington, whom she found at his 
breakfast, served in the room which was 
his office. Although it was then nearly eleven 
o’clock, he had just risen. A glance sufficed 
to show that he was ill. His throat was bound 
by a woollen compress, and his blue military 
cape was wrapped closely around him, regard- 
less of the increasing heat of the day. Doubt- 
less it was then that the throat and lung 
trouble from which he died had its origin. 
He was studying a map which lay beside his 
plate. As Mademoiselle de Berny entered, 
he rose and, greeting her formally, handed 
her to a chair. Reseating himself, he pushed 
aside his breakfast, which she noticed was un- 
tasted with the exception of the coffee. His 
face was colorless. She noticed the spareness 
of his enormous hands, and his eyes of so 
colorless a gray tone as to prove his vitality to 
be at a very low ebb. Troubled by many 
thoughts, not knowing what to say first, her 
nature rebelling against tormenting a sick man, 
although the matter was one which pressed so 
closely upon her heart, she remained silent. 
Unconsciously her companion’s eyes sought 

196 


I 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


197 


the map before him, and he made a correction 
with his pencil, adding a foot-note. Then he 
turned inquiringly again to his visitor. She 
read in his thoughtful and attentive gaze 
neither hardness to repel, nor warmth which 
might give rise to hope within the breast of 
a supplicant. That austere yet strangely mild 
and open countenance appeared insensible to 
the sway of emotions. 

“ Your Excellency,” she said, “ my brother 
— he has been — ” Her voice faltered. 

He nodded, comprehending her unspoken 
thought. 

She looked away from him. Mechanically 
her gaze took in every detail of the room, 
with its low dark ceiling of polished rafters ; 
the snowy curtains fluttering at the open case- 
ments ; the array of blue and white Deltt ware 
on the shelf above the chimney-hood ; the 
long oval table occupying nearly the whole 
of the apartment, with chairs pushed in closely 
together around it, now all empty and in readi- 
ness to be drawn out and occupied by Wash- 
ington and his staff, meeting in consultation of 
war, or when a court-martial was to be held. 
So would these chairs soon be filled by men 
called to pass judgment upon her brother ! 
It seemed to her that she had been silent a 
long time. In reality, there was but a mo- 
mentary pause between her first faltering words 
and her next sentence. 


198 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


‘‘ I do not ask justice for him, but clem- . 
ency,” she continued, the shamed color burn- 
ing in her face. “ I do not seek to excuse 
him, but he is my only brother.’' 

He is guilty of treason, my child,” said 
Washington. 

“ Your Excellency, he is but a boy ! ” 

“In my army are many lads,” he answered, 
“who are scarcely more than children. They 
have suffered during the war continual priva- 
tion, woe, and discouragement. Yet were one 
to run away and be recaptured, my painful duty 
would be, regardless of his youth, to have him 
shot as a deserter. Mademoiselle, with all my 
heart I should' wish to be only merciful, but 
justice is more to be desired than kindness. 
My officers, as well as the common soldiers, 
in face of the imminent peril in which a great 
part of our troops stood at Barren Hill, nay, 
more, the peril which threatened our entire 
army, are hardened to clemency, and protest 
their right of protection against the treachery 
of spies. On all sides are we beset by mis- 
fortune. Not only must we struggle under 
an exhausting burden of debt and a worthless 
currency, but we must fight the foes of our 
own household. Mademoiselle, when we en- 
tered Boston two years ago last March, one 
thousand men who should have been patriots 
followed upon the heels of the retreating Brit- 
ish, flying the righteous anger of their coun- 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


199 


trymen, openly declaring that if the most 
abject submission to us would have secured 
their peace, they never would have fled/' 

“Your Excellency," she said, with a faint 
and pitiful smile, “ my brother was not one 
of those." 

He did not hear her, absorbed in thought. 
He sat 'with his elbow resting on the table, 
his hand supporting his head. His body- 
servant entered and laid at his plate a small, 
worn journal to which there was a pencil 
attached by a string. 

Washington did not raise his head nor seem- 
ingly observe the man as he carried away the 
breakfast things. Mademoiselle de Berny not- 
ing that his face was gray with pain, and that 
his hand was pressed against his side, half rose 
to go for assistance. He motioned her to re- 
main seated. 

“In one moment I can attend to you. 
Mademoiselle, if you will bear with my indis- 
position. From my youth up I have been 
subject more or less to pleurisy." He drew 
the journal towards him, his large hand trem- 
bling as he jotted down with an accurate 
minutia of detail the private daily expenses of 
himself and Lady Washington. “ It is aston- 
ishing that more fresh vegetables cannot be 
procured," he said, looking at her with a 
troubled and abstracted gaze, “ and I am now 
paying as high as a shilling and a half for eggs." 


200 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


Mademoiselle de Berny’s hands gripped the 
arms of her chair. She felt that from nervous- 
ness she should shriek. To speak of eggs, 
the price of eggs, when her brother was in dan- 
ger. His Excellency's face showed behind a 
mist of horror to her. Involuntarily she closed 
her eyes. 

General Washington closed the journal and 
drew the map towards him and rolled it up. 
At his request his servant brought him a glass 
of hot toddy, and he swallowed the beverage 
hastily. Then he gave the map to the man 
with directions as to its delivery. 

Mademoiselle de Berny, who had opened 
her eyes directly after that involuntary closing, 
forgot herself for the moment as she noted the 
ashen pallor of this great man whose supreme 
thought even in intensest pain was not of him- 
self, but of his country, — that country to which 
he freely gave his services, accepting neither 
salary nor recompense. 

He turned to her again, and curiously enough 
his next words were in answer to the tenor of 
her thought. 

My situation. Mademoiselle, is so irksome 
to me at times, that if I did not consult the 
public good more than my own tranquillity, I 
should long ere this have put everything on 
the cast of a die. In short, my condition is 
such that I have been obliged not only to use 
the strictest discipline, but to employ art to 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


201 


conceal the condition of affairs from my officers. 
The spirit of resigning comrnissions increases 
daily. Did I abate the severity of my disci- 
pline one jot, the soldiers would be in rebellion. 
I cannot afford to let them see me show mercy 
to one who has betrayed us.” 

Your Excellency,” she interposed, heart- 
breakingly, ‘‘ he is blind ! ” 

“ Blind as he was, he worked mischief,” he 
replied. “ Mademoiselle, some of my soldiers 
have starved to death this w( nter ; others will 
be crippled the remainder of their lives from 
exposure, yet would no physical infirmity par- 
don desertion, nor treachery on their part.” 
‘‘He is all I have in the world,” she said. 

“ Throughout the land goes up the cry of 
bereaved and widowed women,” he rejoined. 

There was a short silence. Then Madem- 
oiselle de Berny rose as if to leave, but re- 
mained standing, her hand resting on the back 
of her chair. She spoke bravely, but with 
sinking heart. 

“ Once I was told, your Excellency, that 
your soldiers called you ‘Father'; that once 
during a period of black despair, they crowded 
cheering around you. And it is repeated that 
you, laying your hand on the head of a drum- 
mer-boy, said: ‘We may be beaten by the 
English, — that is the chance of war, — but here 
is the army they will never conquer.' ” 

“ My child,” said Washington, glancing up 


202 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


at her visibly softened, “ what is it you would 
have me do ? ” 

General Washington,’' she said, “ these men 
who call you Father would not criticise you 
inasmuch as you showed mercy to the fatherless. 
You say no physical infirmity can pardon 
moral wrong. But these men who have be- 
come physically infirm through this war were 
once well and strong. My brother has been 
blind from birth. He knows not the blue sky, 
nor the green earth, nor the faces of those who 
love him. I do not seek to excuse his betrayal 
of the friendship shown him. But to your 
clemency I commend him as one unprotected 
and blind. I am told. Monsieur, that you 
have no children. Yet a country calls you 
Father. But I have no one in the world save 
him. He is but a little lad, a child in experi- 
ence, too delicate to bear the weight of the 
punishment his deed warrants.” 

Washington was looking up at her, and his 
countenance showed him to be profoundly 
moved. But ere he could reply, she spoke 
again, no longer in a tone of entreaty nor per- 
suasion, but with confidence and decision. 

“Your Excellency,” she said, “I wonder 
that I came to you ; I wonder that I even fear 
your judgment, for I know absolutely that 
you are a humane man, and as such you could 
not hang him. To do so would stamp you 
not as a just man, but as one inhuman. Why, 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


203 


Monsieur,” she said, ‘‘ you would not dare to 
do so, even if your inclination pointed that 
way, which you have confessed to me it did 
not. However the license or the discipline 
of military rule might sanction the deed, hu- 
manity would protest against it. Your Excel- 
lency, you dare not invoke the curse of God.” 

“ My child,” said Washington, with great 
gentleness, “ rest assured that — ” 

‘‘ General Washington,” she interrupted, 
“not only as his sister, but! in the name of 
those of my country-women who have so gen- 
erously given their sons to your cause, I ask 
that you be equally generous and give me the 
life of my brother whose mother was a French- 
woman ! ” 

“Mademoiselle de Berny,” he said, “believe 
me that your appeal touches my heart ; but, 
until I have given the matter further thought, 
I cannot reply to you. Rest assured, however, 
that not only is your brother in my hands, but 
he is in the hands of God. There is one 
question now which it is my painful duty to 
ask you. I beg you will be seated.” 

She sat down in the chair from which she 
had risen, leaning forward in her anxiety as 
to what he would have to say. Washington 
glanced away from the intent and question- 
ing gaze of those eyes, so clear and open that 
one seemed to look down into the honorable 
and proud heart of the owner, with the reluc- 


2o6 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


from his eager grasp ; hair as soft and shining 
had shadowed other eyes, eyes which had 
turned from him. Oh, the distant and en- 
chanting glory of youth ! He covered his 
eyes with his hand. He was not a military 
genius, but he was a great soldier ; but before 
that he was a peace-loving man, and his 
thought turned wearily from the smoke and 
din of battle to the quiet and beauty of the 
country. This young girl had spoken of the 
fact that he had no children, but that a coun- 
try termed him Father. Yet there was the 
personal part of his nature, which cried out 
for a child of his own flesh and blood. In 
his expression was an elusive sadness, a pro- 
found melancholy indicative of a nature whose 
generous sentiments had been misunderstood. 
The jealousy and treachery of some of his 
officers, the lack of sympathy shown him by 
Congress, had chilled a nature naturally re- 
served and self-contained. His face, showing 
much patience and power of endurance, never- 
theless bespoke a weariness verging upon ex- 
haustion, as one who had received ingratitude 
from those he served and had found glory a 
vanity. He removed his hand from his eyes 
and addressed his companion. 

Mademoiselle de Berny,'' he said, I am 
convinced of your innocence in this matter. I 
trust you will do me the justice to believe that, 
painful as the question I asked must have been 





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Mademoiselle de Berny 


207 


to you, it was equally painful to me to put a 
seeming affront upon one who is not only my 
guest and of the French people, but one who 
is a woman as well and doubly entitled to con- 
sideration/* 

Mademoiselle de Berny rose, but remained 
standing a moment. 

“ Your Excellency,** she said bravely, ‘^what 
of my brother ? ** 

A coldness and austerity which appalled her 
made itself felt in Washington*s manner. His 
stern glance frightened her, making her grow 
faint from dread, lest in her last question she 
had overstepped the bounds of his patience, 
and had undone all that she had just accom- 
plished. He rose and laid his heavy hand 
upon her shoulder. His figure more impos- 
ing by reason of the military cape, his majestic, 
dome-like head made him an overpowering 
personality in the small room, which was a 
dwarfed and meagre setting for this great man. 

My child,** he said, “ you have had what 
assurance I am able to give you, until a proper 
consultation with my officers is held.** 

Mademoiselle de Berny made no reply. 
The hand laid upon her shoulder was to her 
tortured heart a cruel weight with power to 
crush. Near her was the door leading into 
the hall. 

“ Remember,** said His Excellency kindly, 

that aside from this Lady Washington and I 


2o8 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


will be honored to grant you any favor within 
our power.” 

She did not speak, her eyes were fixed upon 
the hall door, which opened a blessed avenue 
of escape when that heavy hand should be 
lifted from her shoulder. 

With an irrepressible sigh, as he divined her 
feelings, Washington's hand dropped to his 
side. 

Mademoiselle de Berny,” he said, I am 
about to review the troops, and I shall leave 
this room at your disposal, where, if you desire, 
you may rest until you feel better able to 
return to your brother. I would urge my 
advice in this instance as you appear to be 
physically exhausted.” 

He opened the drawer of the table and 
placed within the papers and maps he had been 
correcting and locked the drawer, putting the 
key in his pocket. His great exactness showed 
itself in the careful placing of these papers ; in 
the particular unvarying position of the ink- 
well, quill-pen, and blank paper in the centre of 
the table. From the chimney-shelf he took 
his hat and riding-whip, which he uniformly 
laid there. Then, without further word to the 
young girl, who had again seated herself, he 
opened the door and went out, closing it behind 
him. 

Mademoiselle de Berny shivered at the 
sound, and her hands clasped convulsively. 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


209 


At last she was alone ! Her bosom rose and 
fell quickly from her tumultuous breathing. 
She was like a bird which had escaped from 
the snare of the fowler — a bird uncaptured, but 
fluttering with a broken wing. With the clos- 
ing of the door between herself and Washing- 
ton had come a blessed relief — release from 
pain. All that ideal sentiment she had held 
sacred had been violated, and the last blow had 
come from Washington. As a rough touch 
leaves an ineffaceable mark upon the petals of a 
flower, so his statement, that she had been 
virtually a prisoner under suspicion as a com- 
mon spy, had bruised a nature so highly strung 
and of such delicacy that a false accusation cast 
upon it fell as a wound and not as an insult, 
rendering the receiver incapable of resentment. 

For a little while His Excellency ceased to 
signify a great and humane man to Mademoi- 
selle de Berny. His words had invested him 
with a kind of horror, so that she shrank from 
the memory of him as one loathing the instru- 
ment which had dealt a wound. With closed 
eyes she prayed she might never look upon 
his face again. She thought of Richard 
Heyward, and somewhat of relief came into 
her expression. She opened her eyes and 
the room was magically changed. True, there 
were the same snowy curtains fluttering at 
the casement ; as brightly blue as before was 
the array of blue and white china on the 


210 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


chimney-shelf ; there was the long table with 
the empty chairs pushed in around it ; above 
her head there still remained the low, dark 
ceiling with its polished rafters. But the hor- 
ror of the room was gone, gone with that 
colossal figure which had made it a small, mean 
place. 

With the absence of that sad, austere, and 
yet benevolent countenance the room lost its 
air of a justice court, and recovered a certain 
sweet simplicity, as of a domestic life passed 
within its walls, breathing peace and comfort. 
As a golden sunlight penetrating a gray and 
melancholy mist, so now the atmosphere of the 
room lately thick with horror and shame — so 
that she felt as if every breath of air suffocated 
her — steadily brightened beneath the beneficent 
thought of her lover. He it had been who 
had first violated those Old World sentiments 
of honor, becoming gentle people among 
whom she had been born and bred, but now 
at the last it was he who restored serenity to 
her troubled soul. It consoled her deeply to 
remember he had abided, to the bitter end, 
by the principles in which he believed. With 
the unerring instinct of love she comprehended 
what remorse his must have been when he 
arrested her brother. Although her own heart 
were sacrificed in the struggle, it counted as 
nothing beside the fact that he had stood loyal. 
Now, amid her shattered ideals and outraged 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


2II 


sentiments, her brother’s shame and the blight- 
ing suspicion cast upon herself, the thought of 
Heyward was as an oasis in the desolate wastes 
of her happiness. The little room was dim 
behind a mist of tears. 


Chapter XIII 

Y oung Stirling, recommended to the 
mercy of the court, did not receive the 
penalty his crime warranted, but was sen- 
tenced to imprisonment as an unsafe person until 
such time as he could be returned to his guardian. 
General Stirling, of His Majesty’s Army. Al- 
though he had been openly convicted as a spy, 
he was treated indulgently by the officers and 
soldiers over whom he exercised an irresistible 
charm. His gay humor, his haughty and self- 
consequential bearing, his fragile beauty and his 
incurable blindness, the devotion of the great 
hound to him and, above all, perhaps, his 
mourning attire and the sword of his soldier- 
father, which he wore with such importance, 
touched that which was best and tenderest in the 
roughest as well as the most discouraged men. 

But of all this consideration shown him, 
which would have so gratified her loving pride, 
had she known it. Mademoiselle de Berny was 
unconscious. The day following her interview 
with General Washington she had spent with 
her brother in the guard-house, and late in the 
afternoon, feeling utterly wearied, she had re- 
turned to headquarters to rest for a short while. 
She climbed the narrow, little stairway leading to 
212 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


213 


her room and lay down on her bed ; that bed 
from which she did not rise for nearly three 
weeks, and which it appeared for a time she 
never would leave again, worn out by the 
anxious strain and exposure to which she had 
been subjected. 

During those days when her illness seemed 
liable to terminate fatally, her brother, granted 
permission by Washington, stationed himself 
in a corner of the bedroom with his faithful 
hound beside him. And often in the watches 
of the night, when the girl tossed and moaned 
in delirium, he would play gently on his flute, 
sometimes singing little folk-songs in his 
mother's tongue, which were like airs of sunny 
France blowing softly in the sick-room, so that 
at last the patient grew quiet and soothed. 
But he refused with strange and even angry 
insistence to leave his corner and move nearer 
the bed. Not once did he approach his sister. 
Only the Great Dane, standing as high as the 
small bed, would draw near and lick the little 
fevered hands, whining pitifully until spoken 
to reassuringly by the nurse, a colored woman 
belonging to Lady Washington. 

As Mademoiselle de Berny grew better, her 
brother spent less and less of his time with her, 
slipping out of the room at the first opportunity 
and back to the guard-house, where he was 
virtually imprisoned, there to pass long idle 
hours talking and jesting with the soldiers ; 


214 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


practising with his sword, fencing with remark- 
able skill, blind as he was, as though possessed 
by a sixth sense to locate his opponent and 
gauge his movements. His chief delight, how- 
ever, was to seat himself upon the great stump 
of an old oak tree, which had been hewn down 
just outside the guard-house door, and there 
lead the men in song. 

He played a fiddle he had purchased of a 
negro, giving in exchange one of his jewelled 
knee-buckles. 

Several days prior to the breaking up of 
camp. General Washington, passing by the 
guard-house on his return from a review of his 
troops, checked his horse to listen to the music. 
Lulled by the languor of the warm June day, a 
number of soldiers lounged on the ground in the 
shade of the trees, smoking and jesting or join- 
ing in the singing. As Washington drew up 
his horse, the jingle of “Yankee Doodle*' rose 
lustily. His Excellency motioned the men to 
continue, and remained listening, his white horse 
pawing the ground ; his gaunt face was pleased, 
although unsmiling, as his gaze rested benignly 
on his men. As the song ended and he was 
about to ride on, the fiddle continued playing 
without a break in the time. The tune was 
the same, but Armand’s voice rose to different 
words, which were at once recognized by his 
companions. The song now was a parody 
made by some British wag upon the Continental 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


215 


air of ‘‘Yankee Doodle/' and greatly in vogue 
the past winter in Philadelphia. 


** When Congress sent great Washington, 

All clothed in power and breeches. 

To meet old Britain’s war-like sons. 

And make some rebel speeches,” 

There was a murmur from the men. Their 
eyes sought the impassive countenance of their 
commander. He raised his hand, enjoining 
silence on their part. In his deep eyes lurked 
a still humor. The prisoner sat perched upon 
the stump, one leg doubled under him, his 
foot tapping his hound's back. His fair hair 
gleamed pale gold in the sunlight; his face 
was afire with daring and laughter. Only his 
eyes were blank and staring. 

’Twas then he took his gloomy way. 

Astride his dappled donkey’s. 

And travelled fast both day and night. 

Until he reached the Yankees. 

** Full many a child came into camp. 

All clad in homespun kersey. 

To see the greatest rebel scamp. 

That ever crossed o’er Jersey,” 


Sang the laughter-thrilling voice, ringing out 
with mocking sweetness. The effect was irre- 
sistible. From sheer spontaneity the men broke 
into a murmur of the tune. 


2i6 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


** The rebel clowns ! Oh, what a sight ! 

Too awkward was their figure. 

^Twas yonder stood a pious wight. 

And here and there a nigger ! 

The patriot brave, the patriot fair. 

From fervor had grown thinner. 

So off they marched with patriot zeal 
And took a patriot dinner.^’ 

On His Excellency’s face was a rare smile. 
There is the responsibility of the individual 
soldier ; there is a greater responsibility of the 
commander. And sometimes it happens to 
one in authority that he is made to feel the 
burden of his liability as something greater 
than can be borne, so that his own personality 
becomes an irksome thing to him, inasmuch as 
he can no longer regard himself lightly nor 
inconsequentially. A mere song had accom- 
plished much, so that for a little while Wash- 
ington lost his seriousness in his own eyes, and 
the heavy cloak of tormenting care seemed to 
have slipped from his shoulders. So often- 
times does a jest cheer the heart and invite 
hope. But there was something of the peda- 
gogue in Washington which would not permit 
him to let the prisoner’s action pass unre- 
proved. He guided his horse nearer the 
group, raising his hand to enjoin silence among 
the men. He perceived that the boy was 
about to speak, and he awaited his words with 
some curiosity and amusement. 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


217 


Young Stirling, having finished singing, laid 
the fiddle down on the ground beside him. 
Then with the manner of a man having a good 
story to tell, a manner so evidently imitative 
and confident as to be absurd in one so boyish, 
he crossed one leg indolently over the other 
and clasped his hands around his knee. He 
turned his head from side to side, listening a 
moment. Then he laughed mischievously. 

‘‘ Methinks you fail to find that jingle ring 
sweetly, friends. Yet the tune was the same 
as your own ‘ Yankee Doodle.’ Perhaps you 
liked not the reference to your ‘ patriot din- 
ner.’ I wonder not that continual fare of hasty 
puddin’ and molasses has made you a trifle 
thin-skinned and sensitive to ,the mention of 
it. Even during my short stay here my 
stomach has grown aweary of it,” he paused, 
laughing, but resumed talking in another mo- 
ment. 

I was about to tell you a tale — a rare 
good tale, my father used to say. Many a 
time has he brought his hand down smartly 
on his leg — so — and taken his pipe from 
his mouth to laugh at the thought of it. 
‘ By the Lord Harry,’ he would say, shaking 
his head, ‘ like music ! ’ and he would fall to 
chuckling again over it.” 

The speaker grew silent, leaning a little 
forward, his face lit by a dreamy smile. 

‘‘ He loved a good joke so,” he said softly. 


2i8 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


speaking to himself with a musing nod. Sud- 
denly recollecting the present, he drew himself 
up again and continued his story. 

'Twas in the Seven Years’ War, and His 
Excellency, General Washington, was then a 
good Tory. It seems, so my father said, that 
His Excellency wrote an account of a skirmish 
with the French at Great Meadows, in which 
he beat them because of his English blood, 
and sent the tale to England where it was 
printed. ’And in the account he wrote that 
the ‘ whistling of bullets was like music ! ’ 
’Tis said King George’s face was worth run- 
ning for to see when he read it. ^ For,’ said 
His Majesty, shaking with merriment, ‘ if he 
had heard more, he would not have thought 
so ! ’ ” 

Washington’s mouth twitched. 

If I did use that phrase, sir,” he said in 
a low and amused tone, it must have been 
when I was very young.” 

The prisoner, confounded by the unexpected 
retort, started to his feet. 

Your Excellency ! ” he cried. 

“ I must ask you, young sir,” continued 
Washington, in his peculiarly low and con- 
strained yet penetrating voice, ‘‘ if you con- 
sider it becoming a gentleman that in your 
present circumstances you sing unseemly songs, 
and indulge in jesting at the expense of one 
who has befriended you ? ” 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


219 


The boy’s bright face grew sullen and 
the eyelids, dropped over the sightless eyes, 
quivered. 

It was characteristic of Washington that, 
following a just reprimand, the great benevo- 
lence of his nature warmed his austere manner 
as sunlight a wintry landscape. He looked 
down at the desolate, boyish figure in its black 
garments, and saw the sullen, defiant pride in 
the set face. 

‘‘ My lad,” he said kindly, ‘‘ I am told that 
your father met a brave death on the field, and 
was a man of excellent parts. Think you that 
he would consider his son had shown either 
courage or the well-breeding of a gentleman 
could he see him now ^ I have no doubt that 
you hoped to benefit your King, but you must 
remember, young sir, that, although your de- 
sire was honest, in fulfilling it you betrayed 
the hospitality shown you by your enemy, and 
also acted without military authority from the 
side you hoped to benefit.” 

The prisoner made no reply. In the silence 
that followed. His Excellency turned his horse 
and rode away. Young Stirling remained stand-' 
ing until he no longer heard the hoof-beats of 
Washington’s horse. Then, with white face 
and without a word, he turned and entered 
the guard-house. He seated himself on his 
bed, speaking seldom to any one, refusing 
food brought him, arrogantly. But in the 


220 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


darkness and silence of the night, his pride 
vanished and he lay weeping, choking back 
his sobs that the sleeping soldiers might not 
hear him, his restless, wakeful head buried 
in his straw pillow, his face hot and wet with 
tears, with one arm outstretched and clasped 
convulsively around the neck of his dog. 

When morning came, he would neither rise 
nor lift his head from the pillow, lying motion- 
less and silent, and ignoring the food laid be- 
side him. All day he lay so. But towards 
six o’clock he rose and availed himself of the 
permission which had been accorded him to 
visit his sister. He called to his hound, and 
passed the guards without a word, his manner 
haughty and repellent. One of the guard fol- 
lowed him, but turned back satisfied when he 
saw the boy enter headquarters. 

Mademoiselle de Berny’s room was empty 
of any attendant. Young Stirling passed in 
noiselessly and seated himself in his customary 
corner. The mellow light of the early even- 
ing came in through the single open casement 
of the primitive room with its spotless sanded 
floor and its homely furniture. On the case- 
ment-sill a broken-mouthed pitcher held a 
branch of the thorny wild yellow rose; the 
air was filled with the fragrance of the blos- 
soms. At one end of the room was a row of 
nails for clothing, and there the young girl’s 
dress was hung — a mass of soft primrose 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


221 


color in the delicate light. In the narrow 
little bed, whose white draperies had been 
removed, and which had been drawn out 
into the centre of the room. Mademoiselle 
de Berny was sleeping sweetly. She lay on 
one side of the bed, the braid of her hair 
and one arm hanging over the edge, the 
slender fingers — a little pink with returning 
health — nearly touching the floor. Shortly 
after her brother’s entrance she awakened. 

‘‘ Armand,” she said, not seeing him but con- 
scious of his presence. 

I am here,” he answered. 

They were the first words exchanged be- 
tween them since her illness. 

“ Come here, dear,” she said. 

He remained motionless. She raised herself 
up in bed. In the fading light she saw him 
in the further corner of her room, the massive 
head of the Great Dane clasped closely to his 
breast. His face was turned towards her, and 
she saw it wan and of an almost transparent 
whiteness, and his eyes were wide open and 
staring. As in the eyes of the hound she had 
often perceived an intelligence which seemed 
struggling for expression, so now in the lad’s 
sightless eyes Mademoiselle de Berny felt the 
mind behind striving to shine through the 
blankness — to pierce the light of day. 

‘‘My darling,” she cried, putting out her 
arms to him, “ what is it ? ” 


222 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


The miserable set look of his countenance 
underwent no change as he answered her. 

‘‘He spoke as if I were a child,” he said 
dully, “and he told me my father would be 
ashamed of me.” 

“ Oh, Armand,” she interrupted pitifully, 
“ who has been talking to you ? ” 

“ Last night I heard two of the soldiers 
talking about it too,” he continued in the same 
listless tone. “ They said I did not know any 
better — that I was only a boy and a tool of 
Roberts. They said that, Diane, when it was 
I, I who sent word to the British that the 
Marquis de La Fayette was going to Barren 
Hill,” his voice rose shrilly, “yet these rebels 
might have been ruined through me had the 
Quaker made better time with the message. 
They lied ! They lied, Diane, when they said 
I did not know any better.” 

“ Armand,” pleaded Mademoiselle de Berny, 
deeply troubled, “won’t you tell me who has 
been talking to you ? ” 

“ It was General Washington,” he answered. 
“ He said I had no right to be a spy. Yet he 
sent Major Heyward to Philadelphia, Diane, 
to find out things for him. Then why should 
he say I did wrong and not his own soldier ? ” 

“ Because,” she answered gravely, “ Major 
Heyward was sent there by his commander, 
and you acted without military authority. 
Moreover, while he was not thinking of 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


223 


himself, but only of serving his country in be- 
coming a spy, you thought of your own glory. 
Wasn’t it so, Armand ? ” 

‘‘ Yes,” he whispered. After a little he began 
to cry, his face pressed against his dog’s head. 

I wanted my father to know,” he said; “I 
wanted him to know.” 

Won’t you come to me, dear,” said Mad- 
emoiselle de Berny, her own eyes wet with tears, 
her loving arms extended. 

‘‘ I am coming,” he said brokenly, and rose. 
Half-way across the room to her he paused and 
then went on. That momentary hesitation was 
the last resistance his pride made against the hu- 
miliation fallen upon him. Mortification at his 
sister’s reproval and condemnation of his action, 
when he was first imprisoned, had filled him 
with resentment so bitter that he would not ap- 
proach her during her illness. Now a keener 
mortification drove him to hide his shamed face 
upon that tender breast from which in his 
wounded self-love he had turned. 

He seated himself on the bed beside her, and 
she drew his head down on her shoulder as she 
sat propped up by her pillows. 

‘‘ I wish my father were here,” he whispered ; 
“we always got along together. We were such 
good fellows together.” 

“ I know,” she answered tenderly, holding 
him closer. 

He moved restlessly and lifted his head. His 


224 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


expression had changed magically and was full 
of eagerness and excitement. His voice rang 
confident and strong. 

“We used to talk about it,” he cried, “when 
I should go to camp with him. And if there 
were a battle, I was to ride close beside him with 
a musket and a sword.” 

He flung his arms out wildly. 

“ There would be the smoke thick around 
us, and the music and the shouting and firing. 
And we two would know we were there together, 
fighting side by side and — and,” his voice trem- 
bled and died down, and his head sought its 
resting-place once more on her shoulder. His 
thin arms went round her neck in a tight 
embrace, his cheek was pressed against hers. 
Ill as Mademoiselle de Berny had been, the fire 
of life burned faintly in her cheeks and mouth 
and shone in her eyes which were brooding and 
tender as a mother’s. But the lad’s eyes were 
closed and his lips were pale. Seen thus in the 
twilight one face might have been taken for the 
death masque of the living, so marvellous was 
the resemblance. 

Though Mademoiselle de Berny compre- 
hended her brother’s loneliness for his father, 
and wondered at the circumstances which had 
recently arisen to grieve him, her thought was 
mostly passive in these moments of blissful 
nearness. That love which possesses the 
maternal element asks little and questions not 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


225 


if only the one beloved is near. And Madem- 
oiselle’s affection for her brother was satisfied 
to hold him safely in her arms, supremely con- 
fident that there neither sorrow nor harm might 
touch him. When the colored nurse entered 
the room with a tray on which was placed her 
patient’s supper and two lighted candles, 
Mademoiselle de Berny raised her free hand 
warningly. 

‘‘ Hush,” she whispered, ‘‘ he is asleep.” 

At the further side of the bed the Great 
Dane’s head appeared as he raised himself up 
from his position on the floor to growl at the 
intruder. 


Chapter XIV 

A WEEK later, on the sixteenth of June, 
at the break of day, a messenger rode 
post-haste into the camp at Valley Forge 
with the information that the British had evacu- 
ated Philadelphia the preceding day and crossed 
the Delaware. So quietly did they leave that 
many of the citizens became aware of their de- 
parture only by the absence of the red-coats in 
the street. 

“ They did not go away,'’ wrote a resident, 
“ they vanished.” 

And this same messenger brought rarely good 
tales of the action of those loyalists left in the 
city, how they besieged the British with entrea- 
ties to leave a guard in Philadelphia to protect 
them from the rebels ; how neither money nor 
entreaties had had effect with the red-coats, who 
roughly retorted that the frightened peace 
lovers should have thought of the future be- 
fore ; how over three thousand miserable loyal- 
ists had fled into the country or crossed the 
Delaware, following upon the heels of the 
British Army. 

With the exception of the wife and daughter 
of the Quaker preacher, whose home had been 
made the headquarters. Mademoiselle de Berny 

226 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


227 


was the only woman in camp. Lady Washing- 
ton and other of the wives of the officers had 
left for their homes fully a week ago, their de- 
parture being deemed expedient even then, for 
it was not known what day the army might 
break camp. 

From her casement Mademoiselle de Berny 
watched the activity and bustle going on in the 
camp ; heard the ringing commands of the offi- 
cers ; saw the prompt obedience of the soldiers, 
for both officers and men were cheered and 
quickened into new life at the prospect of action 
after the long and weary waiting. But to 
Mademoiselle de Berny, as yet not sufficiently 
recovered to bear much change, the sight was 
stamped with melancholy. She leaned a little 
out of the casement, looking down on the busy 
scene with its masses of moving men and horses ; 
of troops forming in the fields ; from the chim- 
neys of the huts rose the blue smoke curling in 
the sunlight, as the men hastily prepared a 
dinner before starting ; groups of soldiers were 
washing at the river brink and filling their can- 
teens. 

Beyond the river on the long hill slope slept 
the dead ! There they lay at rest. Their 
weary march was over, their bowed and bur- 
dened heads resting on the bosom of the earth, 
as their souls rested in God. Defeated in the 
struggle with famine and cold, they had lain 
down in uncertainty as to whether their cause 


228 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


would win or not. Between them and their 
comrades the grass grew soft and green. Did 
they know, slumbering sweetly, that soon they 
would be left alone, lying buried row on row, 
adown the hill slope, their faces turned to the 
east whence the sun should rise ? Perchance 
their good right hands still clasped their mus- 
kets, as if at the word of command they would 
arise — a mystic host, to defend the deserted 
encampment at Valley Forge. In the young 
girfs heart was an indefinable yearning which 
sprang from her physical exhaustion and the 
trials she had undergone, to drop behind from 
the quick on-marching ranks of the living and 
slip away from them back to the quiet resting- 
place of the dead. And she knew not that 
this desire was a homesickness, a longing for 
the happy past which was forever put away 
from her. Against her future as she then con- 
ceived it to be, she rebelled as a sick and 
lonely little child, fighting the terror of dark- 
ness in the night. She turned her head away 
from the casement and closed her eyes. She 
had shared the common fate of those who 
had entered Valley Forge. She had reached 
the encampment with the color of the rose in 
her face and with a light heart. She would 
leave it in a few hours tried to the soul, and 
with a face wan and pale as the waxen snow- 
drops which pushed their frail way through the 
dead leaves of the past fall. 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


229 


By the late afternoon the main body of the 
army had formed in marching order, and was 
moving rapidly toward the Delaware in pursuit 
of the British. It was sometime later before 
the detachment Washington left in charge of 
General Benedict Arnold, — whose arm recently 
injured rendered him unfit for active duty, — to 
proceed to Philadelphia and hold the city, was 
able to start. This division numbered all the 
infirm and disabled. 

It had been decided that Mademoiselle de 
Berny should not go unaccompanied by any 
woman, as the ride was a long one and to be 
taken at night. So the wife of the preacher, 
Isaac Potts, a good and motherly Quakeress, 
who had conceived a very kindly liking for her 
guest, had been requested by His Excellency, 
General Washington, to see that Mademoiselle 
reached Philadelphia safely, where she would 
doubtless find friends, although her guardian. 
General Stirling, had, in all probability, departed 
from the city with the British Army. 

Moreover the good woman was glad of the 
opportunity thus afforded her to make a visit, 
long deferred by the war, to some relatives in 
Philadelphia, and it was with great bustling and 
chatter that she prepared for the journey, which 
she was to take on horseback, seated on a pillion 
behind a soldier. Mademoiselle de Berny, 
wrapped in the long brown cloak in which she 
had come to Valley Forge, was lifted by Isaac 


230 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


Potts in front of Major Heyward upon his 
horse. She was still very weak, and it being 
neither safe to permit her to ride alone nor on 
a pillion, the offer of the young man to take 
charge of her on the ride had been accepted by 
the shrewd and kindly Quakeress, who had 
guessed at the condition of affairs between the 
two young people, and whose heart had warmed 
toward the young officer during the period of 
Mademoiselle’s illness. Many mornings had 
his tall figure darkened her kitchen door, and 
his spurred boots left muddy tracks upon the 
dazzling whiteness of her floor as he entered 
and seated himself near the table at which she 
was cooking, his sombre face brightening be- 
neath the magic of her cheerful presence and 
her assured and hopeful statement that the 
health of Mademoiselle was improving. 

The young girl was amazed and disconcerted 
by the position in which she found herself. She 
had believed Richard Heyward to have left with 
the main troops earlier in the day, and had not 
the least suspicion that the officer who was to 
be her escort would prove to be he. She 
greeted him with shaken composure, too greatly 
embarrassed to trust herself to speak. She 
turned her head aside, leaning slightly forward, 
her hands fastened for support in the horse’s 
mane. 

The troops were already started and had been 
gone some few moments. Young Stirling had 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


231 


gone with them ; in his eagerness to keep with 
the men he had not waited for his sister. The 
Quakeress, who had caused the slight delay in 
the little party, was hastily assisted by her hus- 
band to the pillion behind the soldier who was 
mounted and waiting impatiently for her. As 
soon as she was safely settled, he chirruped to 
his horse, passing on some distance ahead of 
Major Heyward, who had dismounted to tighten 
the girth of the animal he rode. The comfort- 
able, amply proportioned figure of the Quaker- 
ess shook with every jolt. Her bonnet, shaped 
like a scoop, was tied securely under her chin, 
framing a face wholesome and fair, although 
much wrinkled, as a winter apple is still red and 
sound and sweet, despite its withered skin. Her 
feet shod in low, broad-toed shoes, her substan- 
tial ankles betraying white hosiery, swung against 
the horse’s side. On her lap she held a basket 
of eggs and berries and a bouquet of homely 
garden flowers, a gay and fresh bit of color. 

Mademoiselle de Berny glanced from the 
Quakeress’ vanishing figure back to the house 
they were leaving — that house but a few hours 
since the headquarters of an army. Now it 
seemed to have regained magically the serene 
atmosphere of a Quaker preacher’s home. The 
green sweeping boughs of the trees overshad- 
owed its low stone walls. The honeysuckle 
and roses were in bloom around the tiny veran- 
dah. In the back yard a negress was hang- 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


232 


ing out the wash and singing. She saw the 
casement swinging in the breeze and the flut- 
tering of the white curtain in the little room 
which had been hers. Nevermore would she 
be there ! Isaac Potts waved his hand in fare- 
well, and although she smiled in response, the 
/ little black figure of the preacher standing in 
his doorway was obscured by a mist of tears. 
She was conscious that Major Heyward mounted 
behind her and started the horse, but she kept 
her face turned from him, remaining silent in 
her deep embarrassment — an embarrassment 
which was reflected in her companion. He 
had offered his services to the Quakeress as 
an escort to the young girl left in her care, 
knowing that Mademoiselle de Berny knew 
none of the other officers in the division en 
route to Philadelphia, and having also a natu- 
ral desire that she should not be put in charge 
of a common soldier. Now he doubted if his 
solicitude had been wise, as he noticed the 
nervous color fluttering in her pale cheek 
turned from him ; the rigid lines of the slen- 
der figure held as far forward and away from 
him as possible. He felt the violent protest 
of her whole nature against the position in 
which she was placed, and realized sadly how 
very ill she must have been, how weak she 
still was that this protest was passive and took 
no active form. Her high spirits, her old dar- 
ing and laughter, were gone. 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


233 


Now she shrank from him, showing plainly 
that the memory of their misunderstanding still 
rankled in her breast. He bitterly regretted 
that she had not been put in a stranger’s care 
rather than in his, as in her present nervous 
condition he served only to terrify her. His 
lack of forethought acquired a criminal aspect 
to him as he observed the tense grasp of 
the little hands fastened for support in the 
horse’s mane; the frail figure holding -itself in 
such proud reserve, a reserve which must soon 
give way at the demands of exhausted nature 
and force her to claim his arm — that arm from 
which she shrank — -as a support. His right 
arm hung free at his side, ready to catch her 
should she slip. With his left hand he held 
the reins. 

The air was filled with the ineffable bright- 
ness and mellowness of a spring day drawing 
serenely to its close. The river, reflecting the 
sunset, ran smoothly save where its glassy sur- 
face broke into a myriad of golden ripples as 
the horses crossed the ford. The breeze, soon 
to become chilly when no longer warmed by 
the sun, was already freshening, imparting new 
life to the troops, which numbered many sick 
and half-invalid members to whom the day had 
been almost insufferably warm. The golden 
rays were withdrawn first from the woods so cool 
and green that as the men passed within its shade 
twilight seemed to have closed in upon them. 


234 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


Through the slight delay at starting, Major 
Heyward and his companion were in the rear 
of even the last stragglers of the troops who 
marched pretty much as they pleased upon this 
occasion. Even the soldier behind whom was 
mounted the Quakeress kept well ahead of the 
two. Now and then, for the highway had 
many curves, they caught a glimpse at a turn of 
the road of the Quakeress’ solid drab figure, 
little disturbed by the jolting of the horse. The 
gay tints of the nosegay she carried appeared 
like some great variegated flower against the sur- 
rounding greenness. But there were times in 
which even the good woman’s figure disap- 
peared beyond a curve for so great a length of 
time that Mademoiselle de Berny and her 
escort seemed entirely alone in the forest with 
the exception of several Indians, followers of 
the camp, walking behind. 

There had been but little conversation be- 
tween the two, and then the few remarks made 
had been desultory and impersonal. Both felt 
as if they were moving in a dream, and had 
little consciousness of time beyond a bitter 
anticipation of the parting moments drawing 
steadily nearer as they approached Philadelphia, 
where they would separate in uncertainty as to 
whether they would ever meet again. The girl’s 
heart was filled with jealous pain, and before 
her mental gaze the possible future unfolded. 
There would be one brief moment of farewell. 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


235 


a slight clasping of the hands, and then they 
would go their separate ways — she back to 
France and he — ah, he would remain in this 
young country to forget his one-time love for 
her, for a woman who had been reared to the 
same ideals as he, until even his memory of his 
former fancy grew confused and her personality 
became merged into that Old World society 
whose sentiment he despised, whose honor was 
strained in his estimation, and whose customs 
he scorned. Ah, well, she had learned her 
lesson. Those weeks at Valley Forge had re- 
vealed a moral breadth and noble simplicity of 
life, which, although she longed for it, she felt 
was not for her. It was too high an altitude. 
More freely could she breathe in the vitiated 
and artificial air of the court; there were the 
surroundings most suitable to her development. 
A scion of old France, she would be drawn 
back again to her own people as Heyward 
would be to his. But had it been different ! 
Little could Mademoiselle de Berny foresee the 
revolution impending in her country, a revolu- 
tion so terrible that it could have been born only 
of the two extremes, — a pampered and effete 
nobility and a starving people. She would es- 
cape no more in France than America those 
questions which were troubling her now, and 
had perplexed her sorely at Valley Forge. 

Richard Heyward looked down anxiously at 
her, wondering at her prolonged silence which 


236 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


chilled him, depriving him of courage to speak. 
In the western sky, seen faintly rose-colored 
through the trees, the evening star brightened 
silverly. Mademoiselle de Berny’s hair escap- 
ing from the confinement of her hood was 
blown softly about her face. Against his coat 
lay one tress like finely spun silk. His thought 
reverted to his old comparison of her hair to 
the reddish bronze of oak leaves in sunshine. 
Only now in the dimness there was no gleam 
in her hair, but it was the color of a dead leaf, 
brown and curling, blown against his breast. 
His gaze dwelt hungrily on her leaning forward 
as far as possible from him, her head turned so 
that he could see but her profile, subtle, re- 
served, beautiful, shadowed by the brown hood 
of her cloak and the softly moving curls of her 
hair. At times her loveliness aroused a curious 
emotion in him, affecting him painfully, so little 
candor it revealed, so little to be possessed did 
it seem. A certain hopelessness would arise 
within him so that in her presence was he 
most lonely, most remote from her. 

She, striving to push the rebellious locks 
back beneath her hood and being still very 
weak, commenced trembling in her embarrass- 
ment. Fearing she was chilled he checked the 
horse and removed his coat, placing it around 
her shoulders, at which action she protested, 
striving ineffectually to put the garment from 
her. In removing his coat he appeared in his 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


m 


ruffled shirt, the whiteness of which made more 
distinct the darkness of his face. Her glance 
fell upon his hand. In his anxiety lest she 
should fall he had passed this arm lightly 
around her. It rested against her cloak, its 
strength refined by the overhanging ruffle 
— a hand delicate and finely formed, ex- 
pressing a nervous intensity indicative of the 
man. Now, in Mademoiselle de Berny there 
grew a great humbleness, so that had it been 
possible she would fain have bent and laid her 
face against his hand, quite content if life, which 
had grown so bitter, might slip from her, 
remaining thus very quietly with hidden face. 

“ Monsieur,” she said, her voice cold and 
grave from rigid self-control, “there is one 
thing of which I would speak to you, lest I 
might not have an opportunity when we reach 
Philadelphia. Monsieur,” turning so she might 
face him, a slight tremor now perceptible in 
her tone, “ I want you to know that I under- 
stood quite perfectly, quite perfectly what it 
must have meant to you to arrest Armand, 
and — and appreciate that it was the right 
thing for you to do. I never felt that he would 
be made to suffer the penalty of his crime, 
and perhaps that made a difference. But had 
my brother been punished, I think I should 
have tried even then to have understood how 
you were right in your way. And I think had 
they killed Armand, I should have been sorry 


238 Mademoiselle de Berny 

for you too. I should have been sorry for you 
too, Monsieur.” 

He saw her face lifted like a white flower in 
the dusk to his, and then he turned his glance 
away, greatly touched by her sweet words, but 
inexpressibly depressed as he felt that they be- 
trayed no love, only the impulse of a just and 
generous nature. And once he had thought to 
win her love ! He looked down at her again, 
at the clear eyes so full of child-like honesty 
and pleading, as if she craved his pardon for 
any injustice done him, while it was he who 
had brought suffering upon her, that he smiled 
grimly in the excess of emotion which surged 
up in his heart. But the smile which had 
arisen from the tenderness she invariably 
aroused in him was colored by the infinite sad- 
ness of the hopelessness of that affection. 

“ Dear Mademoiselle,” he said gently, ‘‘ I 
should feel that you would always understand; 
that always you would be pitiful of the unfort- 
unate. And I doubt not that you would 
bestow your sympathy on me, too, for I am less 
happy than I seem. Perhaps when you return 
to France you will think of me, sometimes, as 
a friend of yours, here in this distant land, and 
— and it would comfort me to think that you 
did.” 

^^Yes,” she repeated dully, when I return 
to France — a friend in a distant land — I shall 
not forget. Monsieur.” 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


239 


The pause in which he had taken off his 
coat and his slow riding had left them a good 
distance behind the troops. Long since the 
Quakeress and her escort had disappeared from 
sight in the dusk, the soldier, much to the 
good dame's anxiety lest she should lose all 
track of her charge, insisting upon keeping up 
with his comrades, avowing it was discipline 
which demanded that he do so, although the 
simple soul behind him wondered if he did 
not also enjoy the conversation and joking of 
the men whose company he would not forego. 
The violet light of the evening had deepened 
into the purple night. The men stepped 
briskly, although the road was muddy and 
shadowed blackly by the forest on either side. 
But a full moon shone in a clear sky, and de- 
spite their physical weariness and the poor 
roads, they were singing, for hope springing 
lightly in the human breast finds only an 
incentive in opposition. 


Chapter XV 

W HERE the road diverged widely, a 
solitary apple tree stood in the centre 
of the highway. Here the moonlight 
streamed down broadly, lying whitely on the 
earth, silvering the dark green leaves of the tree 
and casting its shadow sharply down the road 
— an ominous and blighting shadow whispering 
of an evil reality. Since Mademoiselle de 
Berny passed beneath the spreading branches 
of this apple tree, the tight red buds had blown 
and fluttered in petals pink and white to the 
ground. Now the tree bore fruit prematurely 
— the bitter fruit of treason and revenge. 
Like an avenging arm one great branch 
stretched across the roadway. From it dangled 
a terrible burden, grayish in the moonlight, 
dragging down the heavy limb. 

The troops grew silent; some of the men 
shuddered ; others passed on hardened to such 
sights. One soldier, whose hatred burned as a 
fire which death might not quench, stooped 
and picked up a stone and flung it with a 
curse at the burden hanging from the tree, and 
then, still cursing, he walked on. Young Stir- 
ling was among the first to pass. He rode, 
mounted behind one of the soldiers, seated 

240 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


241 


sideways as a woman. As it is whispered by 
old grand-dames that one has a prescience of 
death when that plot of earth which is to be 
his grave is trodden upon, so perhaps this boy, 
blind though he was, became aware of his prox- 
imity to that hanging figure, for he shivered 
and grew pale, as if he had drawn shudderingly 
back from the brink of a precipice over which 
he had nearly slipped, and fascinated by horror 
had watched a stone, dislodged by his foot, go 
whirling down the great abyss. He grew silent, 
singing no longer. The immense hound ran 
whining and snuffing around the tree seeking 
to attract his young master’s attention, but the 
boy recalled him sharply and imperatively to 
his side, bidding him be still, after which he 
turned and put his arm around the stalwart 
figure of the soldier in front of him. 

“ Cannot your horse step more briskly, good 
friend ? ” he asked. “ I think we are passing 
a long marsh, for this damp raw air chills me. 
And hear how my dog is complaining.” 

His companion glanced back pityingly over 
his shoulder at the boy, and then complying 
with his request touched the horse they rode 
lightly with the whip. 

Reaching the place sometime later. Major 
Heyward’s horse reared, snorting in affright. 
The young man spoke kindly to it, patting the 
animal’s head and forcing it to proceed. But 
when they had passed the tree, he glancing 


242 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


down at his companion saw that her eyes were 
staring and terror stricken, and that one of her 
hands clutched his sleeve fearfully. 

“ What was that ? she asked. So great 
was her terror that her voice sank to a whisper. 

“ Nothing, nothing but a shadow. Madem- 
oiselle,’’ he said, striving to speak lightly; ‘‘my 
horse is so restive that he jumps at the falling 
of a leaf” 

But she, looking around, whispered again 
and again, and he saw that she was almost 
paralyzed with fear. 

He took her hands in his, slipping the reins 
over his arm. 

“ Mademoiselle,” he said gently, in the tone 
of voice one uses to a little child, “ such things 
are not uncommon in war, and there must be 
examples made.” 

“Was it he?” she whispered, after a long 
silence. 

He, divining that she meant the Quaker 
Roberts, answered in the affirmative. 

She moved restlessly. 

“ And when the sun rises to-morrow he will 
still be there. Why did they leave him hang- 
ing so ? ” 

“ But yesterday was he hung. Mademoiselle,” 
answered her companion. “ He had been 
wounded when making his escape, and found 
refuge in a farm-house after wandering in the 
woods for nearly two days. See, Mademoi- 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


243 


selle.” He checked his horse momentarily to 
point out to her the low dark roof of a farm- 
house some distance away at the edge of the 
woods. ‘‘ There he lay carefully nursed, and 
when he was quite recovered and about to 
make his way to Philadelphia, those who had 
nursed him betrayed him, in revenge for the 
wrongs he had perpetrated upon a son of their 
family who was a rebel prisoner in the city. It 
is a bitter tale. Mademoiselle, for so surely as a 
man soweth malice shall he reap malice, and 
those he treads under his foot shall turn even 
as the worm turns. The ' atrocious cruelties 
Roberts inflicted upon innocent country people 
and upon our prisoners are not to be lightly 
passed over. It is a righteous judgment that 
he should be left to hang, an example to 
traitors.” 

“ But after he is dead,” she whispered, 
“after he is dead! To hang like that without 
rest or peace. Could they not have cut him 
down and laid him on the ground ? All my 
life I shall think of him like that, when the sky 
is blue, or when it is storming, he will still be 
hanging there. It is so cruel,” she said piti- 
fully ; “ they did all they could to him. Why 
need they leave him there ? ” 

Her voice was that of a person tormented 
beyond endurance, and she moved nervously. 

“ I shall never forget it,” she said, “ I shall 
never forget it.” Her illness had left her 


244 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


highly strung and unable to bear patiently any 
shock. 

The young man felt the cold trembling 
clasp of her hands upon his wrist. Her trou- 
bled voice went to his heart, and her weight as 
she leant against his arm was so light that the 
realization of that fact was inexpressibly pain- 
ful to him. A great wave of passionate tender- 
ness swept over him so that he was seized with 
a desire almost irresistible to clasp the fragile 
form to his breast, to hold her safe from death, 
from trouble, from all the world — to kiss the 
helpless and lovely face until the pale cheek 
brightened beneath his burning kiss. With a 
sigh he recalled his thought to the present and 
looked searchingly around him. From the 
road in front came the muffled sound of the 
steady tramping of the soldiers and the broken 
echo of their singing. The road was unsafe. 
A solitary traveller was exempt neither from 
marauding Tories nor Indians. As for the 
Quaker, he well deserved his fate. A woman's 
heart was tender and easily wounded, yet — 
He looked down at the little figure in his arms. 

“ Mademoiselle,” he said, “ would it make 
you happier were we to return and cut the 
body down ? ” 

“Yes,” she whispered. 

He turned his horse and rode back. As 
they neared the place again his steed grew 
restive, so that he had great trouble in con- 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


245 


trolling it, but succeeded at last in quieting 
it and forcing it to stand still within a short 
distance of the tree. Then he dismounted. 

‘‘You will not fall, Mademoiselle.^” he 
questioned anxiously. He drew his cloak 
more closely around her and gave her the 
reins to hold. 

It was a strange and weird sight. The 
moonlight fell in white shaft-like lines on the 
broad expanse of road, making it seem smooth 
and bare. The sharply defined figures of the 
two young people and the horse were distinct 
as a silhouette. On either side of the high- 
way rose the dark, almost impenetrable forest. 
There, a little oflF the road, within the shadows 
of its tall trees, the forest would guard the 
secret of a dishonored grave. Heyward fell 
directly to work. Now and then he glanced 
up at Mademoiselle’s muffled little form on 
the horse, her trembling hand patting the ani- 
mal’s head to keep it quiet. Not a word was 
spoken. No sound was heard save the mourn- 
ful cry of some night-bird, the dropping of a 
twig or leaf. 

The young man worked rapidly. He had 
removed his hat, revealing his powdered hair, 
white as his ruffled shirt. The earth was soft 
and lightly packed. In a short time he had 
half dug a shallow grave by the aid of his 
broad sword and a tin plate from his knap- 
sack. Looking up again at his companion to 


246 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


assure himself of her safety, he observed two 
Indian warriors, stragglers of the army, who 
had paused on their way by and remained 
motionless, spectators of the scene, strange 
figures wrapped in blankets with feathered 
head-gear and with dark aquiline profiles dis- 
tinct in the soft brilliancy of the night. Hey- 
ward bade them assist him, and the three 
working together soon completed the task, 
the Indians throwing up the earth with their 
hands. When the grave was finished Hey- 
ward and his two fellow-workers cut down 
the huge and sad burden from the limb to 
which it hung and which sprang up again 
joyously. 

Put this over his face,'’ said Mademoiselle 
de Berny, and the young officer went and took 
the handkerchief she extended. But as he 
knelt at the dead man's side a moment later, 
and saw the face distorted by helpless rage and 
agony of pain, the evil face to which death 
brought no peace, he slipped the little hand- 
kerchief in his pocket, and drawing out his 
own laid it instead over the lifeless face, and 
then rising he and the Indians heaped the 
earth quickly over the unshriven dead and 
piled on leaves to quite conceal the grave. 

At the completion of the task, Heyward 
gave some coins to the Indians. He picked 
up his hat and drew his sword over the grass 
to remove the earth clinging to it. The tin 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


247 


plate he flung away. As he turned around he 
saw that he and Mademoiselle de Berny were 
once more alone together. The two Indians 
had stolen mysteriously away. He ran his 
sword into its sheath and returned to Mad- 
emoiselle. 

It is done/’ he said briefly. 

But she did not hear him. Her uplifted 
face, spirit-like in the moonlight, her lips mov- 
ing, her hands holding her rosary, proved to 
him that she was praying. Silently he bowed 
his head and waited until she had finished, then 
mounted behind her, and turning his horse 
once more rode rapidly. 

Suddenly her head sank wearily against him. 
But at the touch the bitterness in his heart 
sprang into new life. For one moment thus, 
then she would leave him forever. In little less 
than an hour they would be in Philadelphia. 

Mademoiselle de Berny,” he said, “ I 
must ask your pardon for the position in which 
I have placed you. But at the time and also 
now it seemed the only thing I could do under 
the circumstances. You were so unprotected, 
that I allowed the good woman ahead of us 
to believe me your betrothed husband lest 
some rough soldier should be made your escort, 
as the other officers beside myself whom you 
knew in camp are with His Excellency. But 
in a little while you will be rid of me, and I 
shall never trouble you further.” 


248 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


Bitterly he awaited her reply, but she did 
not speak. 

Suddenly there broke forth a sob, followed 
by others, heart-breaking and uncontrol- 
lable. 

For one second it seemed to him as if the 
agony in his own heart had found voice. 

There was a pause, then the pitiful sobs 
broke forth again. He caught her to his 
breast, understanding at last. His voice broke 
with pain and longing. 

Diane,*' he said, ‘‘ oh, Diane ! ” 

In the desperate need of each for the other's 
sympathy after the trials they had passed 
through, they remained silent in a close em- 
brace — a silence stirred only by Mademoi- 
selle's low sobbing. Her cheek was pressed to 
his, her tears were on his lips. In his arms she 
was trembling as a bird which had flown far and 
found rest. And at last she grew quiet and 
soothed ; her grief had sobbed itself out upon 
his breast, and her tears had ceased to flow. 
He drew her arm around his neck. On his he 
felt the touch of her sweet mouth and the 
words between them remaining unspoken were 
yet understood. And so through the moonlit 
night they rode, — her head upon his shoulder 
and his arm around her, — two young lovers in 
the midst of war, yet for whom life just then 
held naught but peace. The vague perfumes, 
the murmurings and the soft breezes of the 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


249 


spring night, surrounded them, and above their 
heads were the unclouded heavens. 

And after a while words came, whispered 
words upon his shoulder, until at last her eyes 
met his, shyly, but revealing a love unspeak- 
able. He looked down at her lying against his 
breast, blushing with love in the moonshine, 
smiling as one whose supreme desire is fulfilled. 
She stirred a little in his arms. 

“ Where is Armand ? she said, and raised 
herself to search the road in front of them 
with anxious gaze. 

‘‘ The troops are well in advance,'* he an- 
swered ; ‘‘ but he is safe with them, and I, 
myself, put him in charge of a worthy fellow." 

But he could not quiet her suddenly awak- 
ened anxiety. 

“ There is no one," she said, no one who 
is always in my heart as he is." 

“ And I, sweetheart," he asked smiling, 
what of me ^ " 

“ You," she said, ‘‘ ah, Richard, that is dif- 
ferent, you are mine, you belong to me, as I 
to you. But since his father died, he has been 
alone in the world. Once I thought that I 
could be all to him, but that was before I 
came to Valley Forge. Now," she added 
sadly, I know it will never be so, for I have 
learned to know him better, and he is lonely 
for his father. Ah, Richard, Richard, death 
could not separate us ! " 


250 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


He spoke assuring words to her, until once 
more she smiled entirely comforted. 

Richard,” she said at last, with grave re- 
proach, ‘‘ there is one thing I shall not forgive 
you — that you destroyed the only love-letter 
you ever wrote me. A woman would not have 
been so stupid ! ” 

They had reached a long low hill-line, from 
the ridge of which could be seen the lights of 
Philadelphia. On the moonlit road below, 
between them and the city, they could see the 
black moving mass of the Continental troops. 

Heyward checked the horse for a moment. 
Mademoiselle de Berny leant forward, her gaze 
sweeping the landscape. 

“ What a great country is this, Richard,” she 
said. See how the city lies like a little cluster 
of village lights nestling near the river. How 
the land stretches away on all sides of us, 
seeming vast and limitless as the sky above us, 
did we not know that beyond lay the ocean.” 

“ And will you be content to stay here, 
Diane?” he asked. “ We have none such great 
cities as you are accustomed to in the Old 
World, but on the other hand we hear not the 
wailing of the poor which rises from the streets 
of those cities. We have no brilliant court 
society, yet neither do we hear the murmur- 
ings of an oppressed people who are powerless 
to throw off the chains which hold them slaves 
to the will of a despot. And when this war is 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


251 


over, Diane, and victory is ours, then you and 
I will take long journeys together, and you will 
learn the grandeur of this new republic, with 
its great mountains and rivers ; a land which is 
divided into no petty kingdoms, and whose 
limitations are marked only by the hand of 
God in His great oceans on either side.’’ 

Mademoiselle de Berny smiled a little wist- 
fully. She rested her head against him once 
more, and her hand slipped into his. 

“ Richard,” she said, “ the greatness of your 
country frightens me, — I who have stepped 
but little beyond the convent walls and the gay 
society of the French court. You must not 
reproach me if sometimes in the future I have 
a homesickness for my sunny France; for 
the love of it runs in my blood. Yet I shall 
have no regret at remaining here with you ; for 
has it not always been so — that the woman 
gives up her country to make her home where 
the man she loves makes his ? ” 

“ Sweetheart,” he said, ‘‘ love knows no 
country.” 

She laughed. ‘^Yet, Richard,” she mur- 
mured mischievously, you would not go 
back with me and live in France.” 

“ My country needs me here, Diane,” he 
answered gravely. 

“ If it needs you, then it needs me also,” she 
said ; “ for love makes us one, Richard.” 

‘‘ Diane,” he said, holding her closer in his 


252 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


arms, “we can find the lilies that you love 
here. We call them not the Fleur-de-lis as 
you do in France, nor do we give them the 
old English name of Flower-de-luce ; but in 
this country we call them the Sweet Flag, and 
I will take you to the great marshes where you 
may see them blowing white and purple, mile 
on mile.” 

“ Yes,” she whispered, “ we will go there to- 
gether, you and I, when the war is over. And 
Armand, Richard ^ He, too, will gather the 
lilies with us.” 

He laughed. 

“ When the war is over,” he repeated happily, 
and kissed her. This night seemed the reason 
why he had lived, for him, he thought ; what- 
ever the future held, it was worthy that his 
future life should exist that he might remember 
it. He bent his head to lay his face against 
hers. 

“ Ah, dear Mademoiselle,” he whispered 
chokingly; “ah, dear Mademoiselle!” 


Chapter XVI 

I N the fall of that year, on a golden morning 
in late October, there rode out from the city 
of New York three persons, one of the 
riders being accompanied by a hound. Two 
of these people were Mademoiselle de Berny 
and her brother, and the third member of the 
party was a priest mounted on a white mule. 
The journey had interfered with the latter’s 
routine service, and he strove to soothe his 
conscience by chanting the service of the hour 
in Latin. 

The sun, bright in a clear sky, shone warmly 
on their backs and cast their shadows ahead of 
them down the forest road. The purple haze 
of Indian summer filled the air, which had the 
balminess of spring. Here the breeze had 
swept the road bare, but there the horses 
stepped knee deep in drifts of rustling leaves. 
Some few yellow leaves still hung trembling 
on the naked branches. Now and again there 
flamed a late scarlet maple. 

One month ago Mademoiselle de Berny had 
received a letter from her uncle, the Abbe de 
Berny, in which he stated his wish to have her 
return to France that fall. When the message 
reached her she was in New York, where the 

*53 


254 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


British held possession of the city. General 
Stirling had, within a few days after her return 
to Philadelphia from Valley Forge, sent for 
her and his nephew, and placed them in the 
care of Tory friends in New York. With the 
exception of those few days in Philadelphia, she 
and Richard Heyward had not seen each other, 
although the two had been able to maintain 
a desultory correspondence by means of an 
Indian. Since receiving word from her uncle. 
Mademoiselle de Berny had written in greatest 
anxiety to her lover, desiring that she might 
return to France as his wife, thus protected from 
all plans her uncle doubtless intended regarding 
her marriage. The letter sent by the Indian 
was received and immediately answered by 
Heyward. 

The first lull in the activities of war was 
seized by the lovers, and the time and place of 
the marriage settled upon. General Stirling 
was away on a campaign, and his absence fur- 
thered the plan ; while the Tories, in whose care 
Mademoiselle had been placed, were a gay and 
pleasure-loving company who allowed her great 
freedom. Heyward, obtaining a furlough for 
two days, journeyed on horseback to an inn some 
eight miles distant from New York. Nearer 
the enemy’s lines at that particular time it was 
not expedient to approach. He reached the 
tavern the night preceding his wedding day, 
and found the Indian awaiting him there, — a 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


255 


courier sent in advance by Mademoiselle de 
Berny to inform him that she would arrive in 
the middle of the following morning. 

He was awake early the next morning, await- 
ing impatiently the coming of his bride. Two 
ancient roads, now seldom used, led from New 
York to the inn, and not knowing which one 
would be taken by Mademoiselle de Berny he 
did not ride forward to meet her, but remained 
at the tavern, strolling a little way down one 
road and back again and then down the other. 

And not far distant Mademoiselle de Berny 
also waxed impatient of the intervening miles. 

‘‘ Oh, do let us hasten, Armand ! she said, 
‘‘the road runs straight.’* She touched her horse 
with her whip and young Stirling followed suit. 

Another moment and their horses were 
flying side by side ; the fresh air blowing in 
their faces ; the road and the priest vanishing 
behind them. At last they turned, exhilarated 
by the brisk canter, and rode slowly back to 
meet their companion, whose mule ambled 
contentedly along and was not to be hurried. 

“ Armand,” said Mademoiselle de Berny, 
“ you are to give away the bride.” 

“ Thus would my father have done had he 
lived,” he answered. “ Bethink yourself, Diane, 
’tis not yet too late to withdraw. Do you not 
know it would grieve my father that you should 
marry a rebel, rather than a loyal subject of the 
King or a man of our mother’s nationality ? ” 


256 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


‘‘ Oh, love, love ! ** laughed Mademoiselle de 
Berny, turning her horse around by the side of 
the priest as the two reached him, “ it is more 
than religion, is it not. Father Da Gamo, in- 
asmuch as it knows neither party nor country ? 
See,*' dropping the reins of her horse and 
extending both her pretty hands, ‘‘ held I one 
hour of love in this palm and all eternity in 
that, pouf — so, even so could I blow eternity 
away, of such light weight would it be compared 
to that one hour. Ah, Father, e'en beneath 
your cassock does not your heart acknowledge 
'tis a right good thing to love ? " 

“ Fain art thou to speak lightly of things 
holy, my child," answered the little priest; 
“sorely against my will didst thou persuade 
me to come with thee to-day ; notwithstanding 
our most reverend Father hath sanctioned this 
alliance with a Protestant. But women prevail 
upon us by their sweet voices. Yet if marriage 
thou wilt have, better one sanctified by love, 
although thou art disobedient unto those in 
authority and breakest a lesser commandment." 

“ But you do not answer my question," she 
pursued. “Now tell me did you never love? 
Does your cassock not hide a wounded heart. 
Father ? " 

The little priest crossed himself. 

“ Heaven hath been merciful unto me. Fain 
would I repeat to you the words of St. Paul, 
who desired that all men were even as himself. 


Mademoiselle de Berny 257 

saying that every man hath his proper gift of 
God, one after this manner and another after 
that, — he that is unmarried careth for things 
that belongeth to the Lord ; but he that is 
married careth for the things that are of the 
world, how he may please his wife.” 

‘‘ Oh, why will you be so doleful on my mar- 
riage morning ? ” she cried. “ Think you of 
naught which is cheerful to say ? ” 

She glanced from the priest to her brother 
and back again impatiently. 

“ If you were going to my funeral, and you 
should show e’en there not less sorry counte- 
nances, my ghost should play a few pranks to 
make you merry. Armand, dear heart, you 
oppress me so that my eyes are full of tears. 
You would not have a bride weep on her wed- 
ding morn ? ” 

He smiled brightly. 

“ I would have you never weep, Diane. 
Guide my horse,” he added, handing her the 
reins, and I will play for you.” 

Through the forest glades rang the music of 
his flute, soaring lightly as a bird’s song, falling 
deeply, mournfully as human woe. But after 
a little he changed the tune and a more joyous 
melody filled the air. 

Thus did Mademoiselle de Berny hear her 
wedding march. 

On her brother’s saddle was fastened the 
bridal bouquet which he had gathered in the gar- 


258 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


den of their New York residence and arranged 
with infinite care. He was dressed as a wedding 
guest, perfumed and bejewelled. For the first 
time since his father’s death had he consented 
to remove his mourning attire. This change in 
his attire he had himself suggested. 

“For I would also be gayly decked on thy 
bridal morn, Diane, lest my sober garb should 
sadden you,” he had said with deep gravity. 
Now he wore a coat of dark gray satin with 
high collar and broad lapels ; at his breast and 
wrists were full ruffles; his double-breasted 
waistcoat was of white silk embroidered in pink 
rosebuds; his knee breeches and silken hose 
were of a lighter shade of gray than his coat. 
His fair hair was powdered and worn in a queue, 
tied with a black velvet ribbon. He wore a 
boutonniere of rosebuds with their green leaves. 
On the collar of the Great Dane he had fastened 
a similar cluster of flowers, with loving insistence 
that the hound was also a wedding guest. Since 
his experience at Valley Forge a subtle change 
had made itself felt in young Stirling. He had 
matured, growing graver and more composed 
than hitherto. His face seemed to have become 
longer and more delicate, and so great was the 
contrast now between the waxen immobility of 
his countenance and the rich and glowing ani- 
mation of Mademoiselle’s face, that the great 
family resemblance between them was barely 
noticeable. 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


259 


Of Mademoiselle de Berny’s dress naught 
could be seen. Her plumed hat shadowed her 
face. Her crimson cardinal, lined with fur, was 
clasped together. But now and then beneath 
the fur edge a slender foot revealed itself, clad 
in a white satin shoe with a broad buckle 
a-twinkle in the sunshine. 

The wild sweet music of the flute was the 
first intimation of her approach to her lover. 

As the little party neared the tavern, and 
Mademoiselle de Berny beheld the tall, figure 
of the young officer in full-dress uniform of 
blue and buff, his head bared and turned impa- 
tiently in her direction, a great shyness seized 
upon her so that she could not meet his glance. 
He, lifting her from her horse, saw the little 
shoe, and, divining the hidden bridal gown, held 
her closely, as if he would never release her; 
and her face upon his shoulder was the color 
of a rose. 

The marriage service was very simple. It 
took place in the principal room of the tavern, 
with the aged host and his wife and their maid- 
servant as witnesses. The two women had 
made such decoration as they might upon so 
short a notice and with only the most primi- 
tive means at their command. The floor was 
white and sanded and the corners decorated 
with branches of fir and scarlet maple, while 
pale forest flowers and ferns and the purple 
sumach were arranged in pitchers and bowls. 


26 o 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


At one side of the room was a table loaded 
with viands and fruit. After the ceremony 
this table was drawn out to the centre of the 
room. And the bride would have mine host 
and his wife seated at the table, and the maid- 
servant only to wait upon the company. Even 
the Indian guide she insisted should be seated. 
The little priest waxed jovial, pledging the 
health of all present in the mellow wine, speak- 
ing thickly at last so that the bride’s eyes 
danced with merriment. The Indian alone 
seemed unmoved, his inscrutable dark face 
expressionless, his eyes fastened on his plate. 
Amidst the jest and merriment, young Stirling 
startled them by affirming that he heard a dis- 
tant tramping of horses. The hound, crouched 
at his master’s feet, raised his head growling. 
After a moment’s anxious silence, which re- 
vealed no sound, the merriment waxed louder, 
the hound being sharply ordered to be silent. 
To this little and obscure tavern at the cross- 
ing of two roads seldom used, a belated traveller 
sometimes made his way. Otherwise the guests 
were few. 

The eyes of the newly made wife grew wist- 
ful. Already the shadow of parting was upon 
her. Across the table her eyes met those of 
her young husband. 

‘‘ See, sweetheart,” he said, “ I bring you a 
philopena.” In his hand he held a nut with 
twin kernels. As he rose and went towards 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


261 


her, he passed the open casement and saw 
several mounted Tories as they swung around 
a curve of the road some rods away. 

In an all embracing glance around the room, 
he saw no chance of concealment in the primi- 
tive building. His glance fell last upon the 
Indian who had half risen from the table. His 
attitude had the alert pose of a wild thing about 
to spring. The plot was revealed to Heyward 
in a flash. The Indian had sold him to the 
Tories. His face white with passion, the young 
man made one stride towards the fellow and 
seized him by the back of the neck. 

“ You dog ! ” he cried, “ you miserable cur ! ” 
shaking the writhing creature in his powerful 
grasp. With contempt too deep for vengeance 
he flung him into a corner of the room. 

“Watch him!” he commanded the hound. 
In another second he had run the bar of the 
door to and was pushing the table in front of 
it to gain time. He looked at his companions 
stricken with terror and staring questioningly 
at him ; the sudden pallor on the priest’s face ; 
the blind boy talking wildly, his face tragic in 
its baffled eagerness. At one side of the room 
the miserable maid-servant, who had caught a 
glimpse of the Tories, crouched screaming, with 
her hands over her ears. In the further corner 
the hound, growling, with his teeth fastened in 
the dark throat of the Indian, was worrying his 
victim to death. The situation was hopeless. 


262 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


There was no one to whom he could look for 
help. 

There was heard the sound of the new arrivals 
as they drew up their horses and dismounted. 
But there was none to receive them nor bid 
them welcome. The barred door met them 
inhospitably and inimically. Behind it shivered 
the old innkeeper and his wife. 

Heavy steps ascended the verandah, followed 
by a loud knocking with the handle of a whip 
upon the door. 

Heyward glanced at his bride and put her 
behind him. 

“ Diane,'' he said, “ for God's sake stay 
behind me." 

He drew his sword and listened intently at 
the door. Suddenly he turned and caught his 
wife in his arms and kissed her. 

‘‘ God forgive me, Diane," he said hoarsely, 
‘‘for having brought this upon you." 

There was repeated the knocking, followed 
by a violent kicking. Were it this door alone 
to guard, no entrance could be made save over 
his dead body. He realized afresh the hope- 
lessness of his position with the casements 
unguarded as well as the back entrance. Like 
infuriated beasts would these. Tories, clamoring 
for admittance, burst into the room upon the 
unprotected women, the helpless boy and priest 
— better to meet them outside, to run the risk 
of being made a prisoner and chance his escape. 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


263 


But he would sell his freedom as dearly as 
possible. As he was about to draw the bolt, 
he found at his side an unexpected ally. The 
little priest stood resolutely near him, his fat 
face white and flabby from fear, but a dauntless 
light in his eyes. 

“ I will go first,” he said. Stand away,” 
he called loudly, ‘^and I will open the door 
unto you.” 

There was a muttered curse and a gruff 
assent. 

Father Da Gamo opened the door and stepped 
outside, his round black figure with outstretched 
arms barring the way. 

There were four men crowded on the little 
verandah. Their ruffianly and swaggering air, 
their faces red and bloated from carousals, 
proved them to be of the worst class of Tories, 
— native Americans whose outrages and atroci- 
ties made them more bitterly feared and hated 
than the Indians. They were licensed outlaws, 
armed and uniformed at the expense of the 
King, but dependent upon their own resources 
for provision and money. They were not 
only permitted but encouraged to enrich them- 
selves by the plunder of the rebels. They 
were far more mischievous and malignant ene- 
mies of their country than its foreign invaders. 

The foremost of the men who had ascended 
the verandah fell back, hesitating to lay sacri- 
legious hands on a priest. But catching a 


264 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


glimpse of the buff and blue uniform of the 
officer a second later, he flung the priest aside 
with an oath. Ere he obtained entrance Hey- 
ward sprang at him with upraised chair, bring- 
ing the implement crashing down on the fellow's 
head and shoulders, so that he reeled and 
tumbled back among his comrades, who also 
fell back, but rallied and made a heavy on- 
slaught at the doorway. The body of their 
injured leader writhing at their feet was pushed 
half over the threshold, one of the men stum- 
bling over him, but regaining his balance before 
he fell. 

Heyward, fighting desperately with his sword, 
managed to make his way out upon the veran- 
dah, from whence he was driven backwards down 
the steps. He retreated to a tree whose huge 
trunk protected his back, while he strove to 
keep the enemy at bay. With two only against 
whom to contend he might have won, but the 
odds were against him with three. It was now 
but a question of moments before he would be 
made a prisoner. 

Suddenly the little priest, bending over the 
Tory who lay groaning loudly on the threshold, 
straightened himself and pointed toward a gap 
in the forest. 

“ A-a-ah!” he cried loudly and triumphantly, 
still pointing, thou hast lost the rarest bird, 
my friends ! " 

The ruse succeeded. 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


265 


One of the Tories turned, cursing, dropping 
his sword to his side. ‘‘ Keep an eye on the 
dog,'* he nodded to the other two. He strode 
toward the tavern muttering, hurling maledic- 
tions at the priest whom he believed to have 
assisted another if not more of the Continental 
rebels to escape. 

The priest had dragged the wounded Tory 
into the room and was succoring the man as 
best he could. At the entrance there appeared 
suddenly the slender figure of young Stirling. 
The ruffian made an unsuccessful pass at him 
with his sword, tearing his satin coat, but not 
grazing his flesh. Before Mademoiselle de 
Berny could follow her impulse to thrust her- 
self between her brother and his assailant, the 
boy had put her aside, and raising his sword 
bore down upon his opponent. 

The next few moments witnessed a strange 
and unprecedented encounter. For the boy 
drove the Tory into a corner of the verandah. 
No movement of his foe escaped him. He 
parried every thrust, locating the man with 
unfaltering accuracy. To this mysterious en- 
counter, between the seeing and the blind, there 
was but one witness. Heyward, his entire 
energy bent upon escaping from the two men 
who only guarded him now, saw nothing of the 
scene upon the verandah, which was screened by 
vines. The priest in the interior of the tavern 
still ministered to the wounded Tory. But 


266 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


Mademoiselle de Berny in her white bridal 
gown, her hands pressed to her breast, leant 
against the wall paralyzed by fear, unable 
to speak or move. The green wavering 
shadows of the vine fell on the two. Once 
young Stirling pushed back the lace ruffle hang- 
ing over his hand. It seemed as if some super- 
human power were invested in him and he 
were playing with his enemy, so light and 
graceful was his erect and slender form in 
the wedding garb of pink and gray. The 
silence which up to this time had barely been 
disturbed by the light movements of the two 
opponents was now broken by the stentorian 
breathing of the Tory growing louder and more 
labored, until it was like the panting of an 
animal. His full face grew purple, his hair 
was matted to his forehead with perspiration. 
Desperately he made a lunge at his opponent 
which, had it proven successful, would have 
ended the duel. But his hand faltered and his 
glance swerved as the Great Dane, growling, 
emerged from the doorway. Another second 
and the animal sprang past his master at the 
Tory’s throat. With scarcely an effort the 
man flung the hound off and leaped over 
the railing of the verandah, running terror- 
stricken towards his horse. The blood was 
flowing from a wound in his left arm made by 
young Stirling’s blade. 

The Great Dane, still growling ominously. 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


267 


lay huddled in a heap on the floor of the veran- 
dah. The reason of his inability to hold the 
Tory, and the ease with which the man had flung 
him oflF, was made apparent by a wound in his 
side from the knife of the Indian he had been 
guarding. 

Young Stirling’s voice rose shrilly, crying 
triumphantly after his foe : ‘‘ Run, run, cow- 
ard ! Coward ! ” 

Of the two Tories guarding Heyward, one 
turned. The occupants of the verandah were 
screened by the close green vine ; but hearing 
the moaning of the hound he mistook the 
sound for the groans of his comrade whom he 
had seen go up the steps of the porch, and 
whom he still supposed to be there, not having 
witnessed his escape. He ran toward the inn, 
shouting his coming to the companion he in- 
ferred was there and in need of his assistance. 

Heyward, horrified by those sounds which 
revealed to him that either his bride or her 
brother were in danger, made a desperate eflFort, 
and thrust aside the one man left guarding him. 

Young Stirling, hearing the approach of the 
Tory, turned toward the steps of the verandah. 
As he passed his sister he put out his left arm 
and drew her toward him. As the man came 
up the steps, — Heyward following closely, — 
the boy bore down upon him, descending as 
the fellow retreated. And he had but one 
arm free, for the other encircled his sister. He 


268 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


raised his sword and brought it swinging down. 
It grazed the fellow’s shoulder. With an oath 
the man turned, eluded Heyward, and fled 
to his horse, and mounting rode away as one 
pursued by devils, and perceiving for the first 
time the comrade whom he would have assisted 
galloping madly down the road a good distance 
ahead of him. The last Tory, who had once 
more assailed Heyward, had his sword struck 
from his hand and fled also for dear life. 

Young Stirling stepped down upon the 
ground and advanced a little way. Then, his 
progress deterred by the weight of his sister 
whom he still held, and who had lost con- 
sciousness, he stood still, listening. Upon his 
shoulder drooped her head with closed eyes. 
Their natural relation seemed inverted. He 
now protected her. As he heard the galloping 
of the Tories’ horses, and the groans of the 
dying man from the interior of the inn, he 
laughed softly. 

“Diane, you will not again say — ” 

He paused suddenly, and the smile on his 
face died. The lace ruffles above his heart 
were moved by the violent throbbing. He 
raised his sword, shining wet and scarlet, 
straight above his head, his face lifted in the 
dazzling sunlight. 

“ My father,” he cried in a loud voice of 
piercing sweetness, “my father, thou beholdest 
me ! ” 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


269 


A moment longer he stood erect, then drop- 
ing his sword, fell backward. Heyward caught 
his wife away just in time to save her from fall- 
ing also. 

The little priest had come out upon the 
verandah. 

Merciful God,*’ he mumbled in a weak 
voice like a woman’s. ‘‘ Merciful God, with 
mine eyes have I beheld a miracle. Thou 
hast given sight unto the blind ! ” 

Heyward was holding the senseless form of 
his bride, murmuring mad and incoherent words 
in his frenzy of grief lest she were dead. 

Young Stirling lay stretched upon the ground 
as one forgotten. Yet not quite alone, for the 
Great Dane, hearing that last exultant cry, came 
from the tavern but barely able to drag it- 
self along. The blood was flowing from the 
wound made by the Indian’s knife. The hound 
came lurching heavily down the steps, and had 
dragged itself almost to its master’s feet when 
it fell down. But still it managed to work its 
way, bleeding along the dusty road, until with 
a dying effort it licked the lifeless hand. 


Chapter XVII 

M ademoiselle de Bemy’s bridal 

dress was stained by blood flowing 
from a wound in her shoulder, which 
she had received during her brother’s brief 
encounter with the last Tory he had driven 
away. 

But Arnrand was unscathed. He lay as he 
had fallen, the arm which had encircled her still 
retaining the curve of that last embrace ; his 
other arm and hand outstretched stiffly held 
his sword. He was smiling strangely, but the 
wonderful light which the priest had beheld in 
his sightless eyes was quenched in death. 

With Mademoiselle remained the grief of 
the living. 

The news of her marriage came as a great 
blow to her uncle, the Abbe de Berny. This 
last flower of his family, possessing his entire 
love, had wedded an obscure soldier in an 
almost unknown country. For her had he 
arranged a brilliant alliance, and the proposed 
husband was to take the bride’s name and thus 
perpetuate the honored and dying family of 
de Berny. 

But within a few years the bitter regret 
softened into resignation and later became 

270 


Mademoiselle de Berny 


271 


thankfulness that she was spared the horrors 
of the French Revolution. The man to whom 
he would have married her died on the guillo- 
tine. He saw his high estate and his vast 
fortune swept from him. Waiting in his prison 
for the blessed relief of death, longing for peace, 
he thought of her as of one in a now serene 
and untroubled country, and thanked God that 
she was happy. 

General Stirling returned to England after 
the war, but within a year came back to 
America. 

“ Diane,'’ he said huskily, “ I am an old 
man. Let me have my home with you.” 

And Diane. She saw peace and honor come 
to her adopted country, beheld her husband 
governor of his state. 

In the spring and fall of every year Governor 
and Lady, Heyward made a journey north to a 
grave lying near a deserted tavern in a forest. 
And sometimes it seemed to Diane that the 
sweetest love she ever gave, that which was 
maternal in her nature, lay buried there. For 
she had no children. All the infinite and tender 
yearning of an unfulfilled motherhood centred 
in that little grave, whereon the grass grew soft 
and green between her and Armand. 

4-nd amidst the petty realities and the heavy 
responsibilities that life brings, the thought of 
that dim forest was ever with her. Her heart 
was divided between the living and the dead. 


Mademoiselle de Berny 

In her thought the silent wild woods where 
her brother slept became a garden to her — 
a garden of Paradise where her dead would 
come_ back to her, and once more she would 
kiss those lips so many days unkissed. Again 
she would feel him so long bereft of her em- 
brace, resting at last within her arms now aching 
with loneliness ; and again she would hear the 
exultant boyish voice. 


THE END 


OCT 18 1845 


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